Fear No Evil
by sueb262
Summary: The Battousai leaves the revolution, the Choushu clan, his sword, and his assassin’s ways. Ten years later, the Rurouni shows up in Tokyo, with a sakabatou, a gentle soul, and a fiercely protective heart. This is the journey.
1. Chapter 1 Kurushimi

_Disclaimer: I own nothing Rurouni, and have created the following out of my own fevered brain for my own amusement._

_Please note well: This story is intended for an audience intimately familiar with episodes 1 and 2 of the OVAs (in my set, they are on disc 1), and highly tolerant of angst. It contains spoilers for those episodes in the form of flashbacks and references, and requires of its readers good recall of events, visual images, character, detail, and sequence. Again, sorry._

_I must at least try to credit the wonderful writers whose work inspired me (at least, before someone stands up and shouts "Stop, thief!"), but their numbers almost guarantee I will forget someone. Someone important. Possibly someone mean._

_I will, however, give it a shot. In all of SiriusFan13's work, the strong, direct writing and careful attention to detail of every stripe inspired me to strive toward that light (for all the good it did); Haku Baikou's authentic "Against a Sea of Troubles" deepened my view of the character, his inner life, and his motivations. Both Conspirator's "Descent Into Madness" and Linay's "Broken Pieces" inform the darker parts of my character, and Tir-Synni's "Kurushimi no Dorei" provided a psychological context for much of my character's motivations. The historical detail in Naga's excellent "Darkest Shadows, Brightest Lights" creates an almost palpable world, which I unapologetically used as my mental landscape while writing my own story. _

_I lifted a gorgeous phrase from OmasuOniwanbanshi's "Journey's End" (with permission), and a powerful concept from Part 1 of Akai Kitsune's "Peace In Your Arms" (no answer yet)._

_This list is sadly incomplete, and the only comfort I can offer to those I have not mentioned, on whose prose and poetry this story so firmly stands, is that they can forever remain officially disassociated with this thing._

_Also, I endnoted possibly unfamiliar concepts; I tried to be complete, so check there._

**

* * *

Chapter 1 - Kurushimi  
_"Agony"_**

Morning and evening, evening and morning, Amaterasu watched the small figure below as it crisscrossed the land, sometimes following her path, sometimes against it, often immobile the entire day. As far as she could tell, her ax handle would rot away before the creature would develop a spirit.

* * *

He moves as in a dream.

Head bowed, one leaden step after the other.

His mind registers only the repetition: first the toes appear beneath the hakama's hem; the whole foot as the heel meets the ground; the tiny puff of dust as the foot settles; the gradual disappearance of this foot as its mate starts its travel forward.

* * *

In the beginning, the nights are wretched. When he sleeps at all, it's only until the dream awakens him.

he's standing.

w_here am i? _

it's pitch black.

w_hat is this place?_

his senses begin to awaken to the dream world; sounds increase to an identifiable level. metallic clashes, dull thuds. he's surrounded by warring men, the heat of their bodies almost searing. grunts of exertion, screams of pain. he is drowning, but he's on dry land.

_why can i not breathe?_

then the smell. the taste. blood is pouring over him, gushing over his head, almost knocking him down; filling his mouth, his nose, his ears. frantic, he tries to run, but the blood is so deep he slips and falls. his clothes are soaked, so heavy he can't rise.

now the bodies pile on him, one atop another, submerging him further in the enveloping sticky warmth. the weight is incredible.

_how can they be this heavy?_

dead elbows and knees gouge his flesh, immobilize his limbs. he sees every face, every contorted, agonized face. he hears every death rattle, each groan as each soul is wrenched from its incarnation.

He wakes in a cold sweat, gasping for air, heart hammering, ears ringing. There will be no more sleep that night. Sometimes he waits for dawn, collapsed against the tree or stone serving as his bed that night, just trying to coordinate his body's erratic functions. Sometimes he rises and walks, Tsuki-yomi his only companion, fittingly enough.

_Who else would look upon this scarred visage?_

* * *

He'd made his bargain: _I will leave the City, and live. I will atone. I will make a way._ Regardless of the bargain's return, he would fulfill his duty.

He would fulfill that vow he'd made, as well.

Those last days: no longer in shadow, but somehow even more blood-filled and so blindly random. As Katsura's bodyguard, he had struck down any and all attackers (baka – in daylight he was indisputably recognizable) rather than significant, targeted enemies. It was disgusting. Soon, the mere announcement of a meeting would begin to wind him up, the tension building over days instead of hours, until at last they were all safely back in hiding. It was absurd, devoid of any meaning.

Finally his soul had rebelled. He had to get out. Whatever else was happening with the revolution, their group was disintegrating, losing its focus. He had fulfilled his agreement with Katsura to come back after …, well, afterwards. It had been time to leave. His job was done.

One last meeting with Katsura; for the first time, at his own request.

"You are leaving us?"

"Hai."

"Where will you go? We have safe houses that I could …"

"Iie. Thank you very much, Katsura-san, but my continued presence will only … cause problems. I will disappear."

Katsura poured another cup of sake for each of them. They drank in silence, each man tasting according to his own soul. Through the open shoji, only the sweet, delicately scented breeze and the gentle sounds of the garden marked the passage of time. Shadows lengthened across the tatami. The air cooled.

Katsura's cup tapped on the table as it was set down. "Hai. You will disappear. We will not meet again in this world."

He finished his own cup. Then he had briefly touched his forehead to the tatami, risen and turned to go.

Katsura had watched boy exit the room and close the shoji behind himself, marveling, as always, at the utter silence with which he moved; it created a disconnected feeling of distance, as if one were seeing an apparition. He had turned his eyes back to the cushion on which the hitokiri had last sat, as if to conjure him back up. Only then had he noticed the katana and wakizashi lying horizontally, placed formally between them.

The full import of this sight had broken his heart.

* * *

The apprehension, the vulnerability, especially their potency and persistence, had been quite unexpected. He found it unbearable. He hadn't thought about that; he had only known he had to rid himself of his ability to kill, his weapons.

_I almost thought "hands"._

However, knowing he had nothing with which to defend even his own life had nearly driven him mad.

_Except for her own… No! Blood will never stain it while it is in my hands._

He couldn't sit; he couldn't concentrate; he certainly hadn't been able to sleep, and that had begun to seriously affect his wits. He had been in danger of simply allowing himself to be run down in the road like a dog. What atonement would there be in that?

The situation could not be allowed to continue.

_Hiko. _

Could he even approach him? What kind of welcome would he get? No matter, he had needed the older man's advice, in whatever form it might come.

* * *

He stood at the edge of the clearing. As usual, his shishou sat on the log outside the cabin, his back to him. The boy waited for acknowledgment.

"Baka deshi …" Spoken like a warning growl.

"Master, I have left them."

Silence.

"And my swords."

Hiko's head half-turned towards him. "Still not burdened with wisdom, I see."

"I will never kill again."

"We'll see."

He breathed deeply, slowly, centering himself; he couldn't give up now.

"But I need to protect myself."

"Get yourself a pointed stick."

"Please, master, I need your advice. What can I do?"

"I'm not joking. It's better than you deserve, as you are now."

"Master …"

"Leave me."

He stood for a few more moments, then dissolved back into the forest. When Hiko felt him gone, he sighed raggedly. That boy would be the death of him yet.

_

* * *

I should not have come. I have always been only a burden to him. He has never failed me before though …_

Something kept tickling at the back of his mind as he'd walked away, however. Something in his shishou's few words … what was it?

* * *

Shakku had nearly thrown him out on his ear when he first heard this ridiculous, insulting idea: a sword with the edge on the inner curve? What in hell for? Who had time to waste on something so foolish? Already, he had been thinking about abandoning swordsmithing altogether! But in the end, the young man's intensity and barely-concealed desperation had won him over. Also, he certainly knew of the hitokiri, and wasn't eager to be on his bad side. _Can this soft-spoken, polite boy actually be that demon?_

Ridiculous! He, the swordsmith of the revolution, being approached in this fashion for such a request.

Oh, well, the youngster had been willing to work in addition to having cash, and had kept quietly to himself when not actually helping out.

Wakarimashita! He'd do it. A gesture to the new era.

* * *

He'd left Shakku Arai's small compound, still a little disbelieving. It had taken the last of his Ishin Shishi earnings, and he'd spent a month working around the place to make up the rest, but now he had it, his salvation: the sakabatou. He'd certainly have to practice with it: he'd tested it when it was complete, and had found its balance, its heft, even the way it slid out of its saya, to be curiously different.

It was an excellent sword, all the same. Lighter than he'd expected. In his hand, it felt eager, responsive, almost to the point of seeming alive. As he'd danced through his kata, it had leapt into place, as if it could read his mind. Increasing his speed had only increased their rapport. Silver arcs had sliced the air like lightning, sundering the peace of the little valley. Crockery had rattled on shelves; water slopped out over the well's walls; the forge's fire dampened and nearly extinguished. The last stroke had burst the earth at his feet in a long trench. He'd never wielded anything like it: a joyous union.

It felt right: slinging the long, soft pouch over his shoulder and head, adjusting the string across his chest, pulling his hair out from underneath. The familiar weight, resting against his back. He was complete again.

* * *

The dream hasn't come in a long time now. Actually, almost no thoughts at all come anymore.

_Keigen. How has this happened?_

His soul trembles to investigate, but the answer surfaces easily, effortlessly: _I can mask my ki._

Of course. His years as a hunter had developed his control over his ki to an almost otherworldly degree. How often had the rabbit not heard so much as his breath as he moved right behind it, even at the moment of capture and kill? How many snakes had nearly bitten him before he learned to make at least a slight rustling when not actually hunting them? Even flies did not spring away from his hand.

Now this skill rises, unbidden, to numb his torture: he masks his own ki from himself. He no longer feels the overwhelming guilt, the ripping pain; no longer hears the screaming of his soul as it endures its hell.

_Good._

* * *

On good days, he thinks no thoughts; he walks.

On bad days, he sits; he breathes. Head bowed, body nerveless, sakabatou shrouded and dormant on his back. Enduring the vow, as well as the years-earlier charge, to live. Sinks ever deeper into emptiness, fleeing memory. Cruelly relentless, it pursues him. Her translucent skin. Her ebony hair, silken against his arm. Her scent, so haunting. That small, melodic voice: _"Husband, welcome home."_ The unfamiliar, wavering spark in him of … was that happiness? This is far worse than the dream. Each memory hauls him into its present; he relives his soul's tremulous awakening to love. To life. Against all resolution, he clings to these precious, agonizing shreds.

The memory fades. Always fades. He's slammed back into the present, with its grisly chronology. This is too much. The schism is so great surely his body will burst asunder.

_Blessed oblivion: not permitted to one such as I._

Many times on these days the river receives the meager contents of his stomach.

He's instinctively followed the river out of the City. Water, at least. Keeps him alive. Plants along the bank: some are edible; others aren't. Once, a fish swims by as he reaches for a drink. Hunger and habit trigger the hunter's response: the automatic plan to catch, kill, eat. He nearly pulls himself apart in horrified recoil at the image of taking its life. Scrambles back against a tree. Lies inert, trembling and paralyzed, for the rest of the day.

* * *

The road, though not a main highway, is not untraveled. He's such a non-entity, however, that most people truly do not see him as they hurry to their destinations, burdened with the blessings of purpose, family, connection. Only children, and others who live in truth, notice him. Occasionally, on the days he sits and breathes, a child approaches. His haggard appearance seems not to frighten, but rather to inspire the charity born of a pure heart. In his isolation, he yet responds to the piping voice, the feathery touch, the delicate warmth, as an innocent offers a soggy rice ball or a bit of steamed yam.

Shame at his unworthiness fights with starvation. He usually accepts the small heart-felt gift. Carefully avoids eye contact. Desperately locks away the terror wrought by his gaze. _Thank you very much, small honored one. Live in peace._

* * *

He wakes. A good night after several good nights. The breeze in the pines. The soft susurration of the river. Birdsong delicately filling the crystal morning air.

_What season is this?_

He's dry and relatively warm, so it's probably not winter.

_Birdsong? Breezes?_

The realization shocks him starkly awake. When is the last time an external stimulus, not specifically directed at him, has reached his consciousness? Struggles to sit up (_so weak!_). Cocks his head to take it all in. The morning is beautiful. It gives him … pleasure.

_Pleasure without pain._

_I wonder where I am?_

_

* * *

So it's alive after all. Amaterasu smiles to herself. __We can begin._Amaterasu smiles to herself. _

* * *

Notes:_

"wakarimashita" : "okay"; "agreement"

"keigen" : "relief" (as from pain)

Amaterasu : www(dot)onmarkproductions(dot)com(slash)html(slash)shinto-concepts(dot)shtml According to this excellent site, "Shinto & Buddhist Corner", the sun goddess Amaterasu is the child of the creator gods Izanagi and Izanami. Japan's imperial family claims direct decent from her line; the current emperor is said to be the 125th direct descendant of Emperor Jinmu, Japan's legendary first emperor and a mythical descendent of Amaterasu.

"her ax handle would rot away" : _The Tale of Genji_, translated by Royall Tyler, publ. by Penguin Classics. In chapter 18, "Wind in the Pines", pp 338, Genji's young wife, Murasaki, complains about how much time he's spends at the new villa he's building in Katsura, suspecting that he is in actuality keeping another woman somewhere. (By my muddled count, he's actually keeping about 10 other women! But onward …). As he leaves yet again, Murasaki complains: _"You will no doubt be gone long enough to need a new handle for your ax," she said with visible annoyance. "I shall have a wait!"_ Footnote 17 explains: A Chinese story tells how a woodcutter deep in the mountains came upon two immortals playing Go. His ax handle rotted away while he watched, and he found on returning home that seven generations had gone by.

Kenshin's state of mind right at the beginning : As I understand it, when a person "does" "Buddhist walking" or "Buddhist breathing", this kind of closed focus is part of it. The intention is to quiet the mind, and allow existence only in the present moment. Very difficult. The hitokiri is not consciously doing this; he's just trying to control the pain, but it turns out to be the same activity.

"Tsuki-yoko his only companion" : The moon god Tsuki-yomi bungled an important errand for his sister Amaterasu, and she cursed him, saying: "Henceforth I shall not meet you face to face." Also from "Shinto & Buddhist Corner".

Hiko says, "Get yourself a pointed stick" : A Monty Python reference, just to lighten things a bit. Fits Hiko, though, don't you think?

_

* * *

Review responses: First, thanks to my reviewers! **kuramagirl44:** thanks for the "thumbs-up" – very encouraging! **moeru himura:** hmmm, I didn't really intend to write "cute" for the scene with the child. I'll have to watch that. **lolo popoki:** I'm glad you liked the "ki hiding" thing; it sort of came from my past. I hope my "different" style is to your liking! **omasu oniwabanshi:** I'm bowled over by your review (blushes) – I just hope the following chapters don't disappoint you! **RoseGoddess874:** I did check out your fics – thanks for the tip! **WolfDaughter:** I'm glad you liked the last line. I first ran across Amaterasu in the excellent "Onmyoji" movies, which I recommend to anyone with a taste for the Heian. **Chibi Binasu-chan: **I asked a Japanese friend of mine about the use of this word, and she seemed to think I was using it correctly. **Misaoshiru:** I'm glad you liked the cultural references. To me, that kind of thing helps "solidify" the story. **SiriusFan13:** I'm so flattered by the statement: "The style is Kenshin", especially coming from such an excellent writer. I can't express how much I appreciate your criticism! **Wistful-Eyes:** I hope you continue to enjoy the later chapters. **Cleo:** Thanks for calling this well-organized! It doesn't feel quite like that, but I'm glad if it comes across that way! **IKnowNot:** Well, I hope you enjoy it in spite of its flaws. Thanks for reading so far! (I do have to admit I actually laughed out loud when I read the phrase "show off academic knowledge". I have so little that I can't believe it sounded like that! I was just putting in stuff that I found interesting, and hoped it was interesting to others.) **HitokiriTaijiya:** Oh, goody, a new reader! I hope you enjoy the following chapters—thanks so much for reviewing! **Shirou Shinjin:** You can't imagine how thrilled I am that you are reviewing this story! Let's see, objections and other pointy things: 1) The Toba Fushimi thing—ummm… piffle! Just "piffle"! Meaning, of course, that I didn't think very hard about it, and this is what came out. 2) The Shakku conversation—all I can say is I hope you have similar problems with the rest of the story because your review was the funniest thing I've read in a long time! (In fairness, though, you haven't posted the "armed with a cube of tofu" thing, so …) 3) And Hiko is less "cold" than "pissed." "Still." It had been only about, what, 5 years since Kenshin crossed him, right? He's getting over it, just in his own time. Give the guy a break, can'tcha?_


	2. Chapter 2 Dakkyaku suru

_Notes and review responses are at the end. I was fascinated by "sword vocabulary", so you'll find a lot of that in here._

**Chapter 2 – Dakkyaku suru  
**_"Come out of a slump; break through; grow."_

_Where am I? What season is this?_

He has vague recollections of seasons changing, but he seems relatively warm and dry at the moment. _Not winter._ He has experienced winter since leaving the City, he's sure of that. More than one? He can't say. Many days spent drenched and shuddering in some cave; many others, sweltering and dusty. Mountain passes. Rocky, empty plains. Deserted, endless meadows.

_Season? What year is it?_

He's starving to death, he can tell that much. _How long has been since I've even bothered to gather berries or pull a few nuts off a tree? Even finding water seems so much trouble…_ He tries to sit up fully, and almost succeeds. Sags back, out of breath, pondering his next move. He can't think clearly; he'd better get something to eat soon.

_I wonder where the nearest village is. The road is close: if I am careful about my approach, maybe someone will tell me. Maybe I can even arrange to work in exchange for a meal there._

He rises, fighting overwhelming dizziness. _So weak!_ Leans against last night's sheltering tree; steadies a bit. Finally, he's able to falter nearer the road. He perches on a large boulder and rests, waiting, exhausted.

_How can I do this? I do not remember the last time I spoke with anyone._

That's solved for him: "Hey, traveler!"

The greeting pulls him out of his haze. He struggles to focus on its source.

"I've seen roadkill that looks better than you! What happened to you?"

"I have been … on the road for awhile."

"I can see that!" The stranger surveys the young man, taking in the filthy, threadbare dark blue gi, the tattered hakama, the sandals just barely hanging together. _And he's so scrawny! This kid is barely alive._

"Please, can you tell me how far is the nearest village? And which direction?"

"You'll never make it in your condition. Come. I'm stopping for a bite anyway; share my meal."

"Iie. I can't. Arigato gozaimashita, but I need only directions."

_What a curiosity! He won't even meet my gaze._

"I insist. I hate dining alone. Don't make me come over there and drag you here!"

Somehow, he feels compelled to obey. _The man appears unafraid of me._ _Maybe I am less notorious outside the City. A world without the censure of my past? Could it be… _

* * *

He wakes gently, easily. The sky is preparing for a soft, warm dawn. _What a strange dream: someone unafraid, someone treating me like a … human. A different dream. So very different._

He starts. _What in hell is that sound?_ The awful racket actually rustles the leaves on the sapling sheltering his head. Deep habit makes him instantly alert._ I am not alone!_ _Chikushō – where is my weapon!_

He feels the warmth of another body nearby. And a ki. Mild. Iie, not mild, but not … menacing. _Not enemy_. The blooming dawn reveals the source of the cacophony: a sleeper. A snoring sleeper. A vigorously snoring sleeper.

Soundlessly, he creeps nearer, then recoils in startled recognition, incredulous. _The man in the new dream! I must still be asleep. Iie, I am awake. He fed me? Hai, I can tell: I have eaten recently._

The puzzle keeps him awake till dawn breaks. As the first bright rays of the sun break over the horizon, flooding the grove and stirring the birds awake, the sleeper rolls over on his back and gives a last great, raucous snort, waking himself. He yawns prodigiously, stretching and dragging himself into a slouchy sit. Scratches. Everywhere.

"Good morning! Look who's already up. The way you konked out last night, I was afraid you'd never come to again!"

"You fed me?"

"Of course."

"Why?"

"Why? You mean other than to drag you back from death's door? You're still too near for my comfort, as it is."

The sun beamed on the scene, blessing it with her abundant warmth and light.

Kenshin met the other man's gaze, curious. "But why did you do it?" He felt, almost as a physical impact, the long-unaccustomed force of another's direct, steady gaze.

"Listen, boy, I may not have the soul of a bodhisattva, nor a daimyo's wealth to spare, but I care more about my karma than to merely pass by someone in your condition." He did not fail to notice the amber eyes, hard, dark, hidden behind the fiery red hair, nor the curious angry scar on the cheek. _Interesting. He's far too young to inhabit that face. But so gentle. What's his story?_

"I have nothing to offer in return. I cannot discharge my obligation to you."

The man snorted. "If I were looking for some kind of exchange, you can bet I wouldn't have expected it from the likes of you! All you seem to possess are what could only laughingly be called 'clothes'. Oh, yes, and that katana."

Kenshin tensed.

"Take it easy. It's all right. I gathered your 'supplies' so they'd be safe. And to check them out to see whether you would survive today without my help. You won't. As for the katana: it's still in its shirasaya, and the blade, well, it's pristine. It's clear you've never used it. I'm not even going to ask why it's backwards."

"It is hard to explain."

"Did I ask? Kami-sama…"

Kenshin had no answer to that.

"You know, in my youth I was first apprentice to a swordsmith. I had a certain talent with making tsuba and had just begun to make a small name for myself in that way. Then … well, I guess that, too, is hard to explain. Let's just say the chaos of the revolution had its way with many of us."

He paused.

"Anyway, so here I am now, an itinerant metalsmith. At least my tsuba are still in demand, and my sword-repairing skills stand me in good stead. In fact, I'm on my way now to spend a month stocking some smiths' shops I know with my handguards. Why don't I outfit your blade for you? It won't take long, and I have everything I need with me."

He rummaged around in his pack, pulling out a smaller bag that clinked metallically. Spilling the contents out in front of him, he sorted through it, pushing aside an assortment of habaki, seppa, a couple of tsuka, till he found what he sought. "Here, this is one of my own making." He laid the piece in Kenshin's palm.

The tsuba was small, but quietly elegant. Its texture was almost velvety to his touch, and the slightly raised rim was exquisitely formed: sharp, narrow, exactly proportioned. And it was decorated with… He paled at the sudden memory: a garden at Otsu, the sun on his shoulders, the tender presence at his side…

"Do you see? The sukashi is a daikon radish." The tsubako pointed to the design in the metal disk as he leaned over Kenshin's shoulder; he did not miss the boy's ashen face or the sudden wobble in his posture.

"Hai. It is surely that."

Kenshin struggled to regain his composure. "Truly, it is a masterful work. But…"

"I know, I know: obligation."

The man fell silent, slumped slightly back into himself; Kenshin waited.

The older man spoke from his reverie: "I wasn't always as I am today: When the times first began to move, I was swept up in the tide, but I had no wisdom, no ability to predict how my actions would resonate through my future. I thought I understood things. I … foolishly threw away the precious gifts life had handed me." The man shook his head heavily. "Unless I miss my guess, you, too, carry a burden greater than you can discharge. Allow me to do this for you. And for me. I have a feeling, a hope, that this small action may resonate through the future…"

Kenshin really looked at the man now. _Why did I did not read his ki better before?_ This was no ordinary traveler. _I think I will obey this man. I think it will be all right._

* * *

"There, what do you think?"

The sword passed from the sitting man's hand to the standing one's.

Kenshin tried a couple of practice swings, and felt the new heft, the slight change in balance, the significant improvement in grip: again he felt gratitude for its presence, and now, also for the one who had completed it for him. He knelt and bowed low before his benefactor.

"I am indebted to you. If ever I can provide assistance or sanctuary to you or yours …"

"Yes, yes. You can stop with the bowing." _This is a good one, that's for sure. I hope he'll be all right._ "Just one question: did I read that mei correctly?" Kenshin nodded; the man was silent, thoughtful. "I guess that answers some questions, but the ones it creates …"

He took a deep breath, rising decisively, slapping the dust off his pants legs.

"Well, okay. I've got to get back on the road, but I have a friend—a good friend—in the village I just passed. It's just over that crest there." He pointed insistently, and held it long enough to make sure there could be no misunderstanding about either location or direction. Removing from around his neck a small carved stone on a leather string, he ordered, "Tell him I said to clean you up. And feed you! Don't worry: he'll let you work around the place a little so you can 'discharge your obligation'."

Kenshin looked up intensely. "Iie. You do not realize... This is not a good idea. I will be unwelcome."

"Nonsense! I'm the judge of that. And of my friend. You leave that stone with him when you move on. I'll be back through here in about a month, and if I find that you haven't given this back to him, or that you didn't allow him to spruce you up a bit, I'll hunt you down for the dog that you are! Am I making myself clear?"

"Hai. Arigato gozaimashita. Domo arigato." He stood and picked up his small pack.

The man also began to gather his belongings. When he came to his food supply, he took out a smaller cloth and placed in it some salted fish, a few rice balls, and a variety of steamed, dried vegetables.

"Take this, or you'll never make it to the village."

Kenshin hesitated. The man pushed it at him, and almost growled, "Don't be a baka, boy! Take it."

That did it. Kenshin took it.

* * *

She smiled, excessively pleased with herself. _Hai! That went quite well, ne?__

* * *

Notes:_

I must credit my father with inspiring the sleeping style of Kenshin's benefactor.

"bodhisattva" : An enlightened person.

"shirasaya" : The temporary, completely unornamented, wooden hilt and sheath intended to hold and protect the blade just until it's outfitted with the final hilt, handguard, etc. I referenced Jim Gilbert's site at home(dot)earthlink(dot)(slash)(squiggle)jggilbert and The Samurai Forum at sword(dot)ne(dot)jp for what little understanding I have of these sword components, and the particular tsuba I used for this story is the third one down the page at home(dot)earthlink(dot)net(slash)(squiggle)jggilbert(slash)oldiron2(dot)htm.

"tsuba" : The ornamented handguard of a katana.

"habaki" : The little ring that sits at the base of the blade. I think its purpose is to provide a firm grip for the saya without actually touching the blade itself.

"seppa" : The spacer that goes between the tsuba and the habaki.

"tsuka" : The ornamented hilt of the katana.

"sukashi" : A design made by cutting out the shape of the object or pattern, completely through the plate of the tsuba, rather than carving or stamping on its surface.

"tsubako" : The addition of "ko" creates "tsuba maker".

"mei" : The swordsmith's signature on the nakago, or tang, of the blade.

_

* * *

Review responses: **WolfDaughter:** Haaaappy biiiiiirthday tooooo yoooouuuu! I hope your "birthday present" pleased you! **lolo popoki:** Yes, he does require a bit of "drive-by" kindness, doesn't he? **moeru himura:** Scenes with children are always cute? Okay, but just to warn you, later there will be another, but it is supposed to be … other than cute. Hope I can pull it off. **omasuoniwabanshi:** I'm glad the opening finally made sense. I wanted it to be just a little disorienting at first, so maybe that actually worked! Amataseru will continue to pop up here and there; I'm sort of casting her as a bit of a "guardian angel". Just a very distant one. **LadyRhiyana:** Ha! I DID mean the "breaks" to be like scene changes! Wow, that came across! **Chibi Binasu-chan: **I'm so surprised that you are unsure of this character's identity! For me, in RK World, Kenshin is such an overpowering presence that it was obvious this was about him! Funny how differently we all look at things, isn't it? **SiriusFan13:** I'm glad you liked my OC, he won't show up much in this story, but (it turns out) will appear in others. I modified this and the previous chapters some to replace Japanese words that weren't doing anything useful, in response not only to your but to others' reviews. **Shirou Shinjin:** Mmm… pizza! That would have worked, too, I guess… I'm glad you like Amaterasu—she won't appear much, but then guardians (especially non-corporeal ones, even more especially, faith-based ones!) are like that, aren't they? The sword stuff is fun, isn't it? I'm curious, did you go look at the tsuba?_


	3. Chapter 3 Kyushi

_Notes and review responses are at the bottom._

**Chapter 3 – Kyūshi  
**_"Temporary stop; pause"_

In spite of the proximity of the village, he needed most of the day to get there. Every few feet, exhaustion compelled him to stop, unable to continue. He was indeed grateful to have the small cache of food. A few bites at a time, and he could keep it down. Gradually, it gave up its life force into his depleted body. By mid-afternoon, he found himself hesitating at the village's outskirts.

_Now what?_

An ancient man worked in his garden at the very edge of town. Villagers moved along the single lane through the houses, greeting each other, ducking through doorways. A man pulling a small cart trotted purposefully past the stranger, not even glancing up at him. Children raced recklessly through the small throng, heedless of their mothers' reprimands; smaller ones sat playing with toys in grassy patches as sisters and aunts hovered nearby and passed the time in idle gossip. Who to approach? He surveyed the possibilities. How to start?

"Looking for someone?"

He was so used to being overlooked that it took a moment to register.

_The old one is talking to me._

"Please forgive my intrusion. I was told to come to this village."

"Oh, yes? By whom? Why?"

_This is … awkward._

"I did not ask his name. We met yesterday on the road, and he … helped me."

The man left his hoeing and traversed the length of his garden to lean on the fence nearer the visitor. Kenshin fished the pendant out of his gi and held it out. The man peered at it as it dangled from the boy's fingers, and then exclaimed, "Ah, yes, Yoshi! So you met up with my friend, did you? Well, come on around to the front of the house. Let me knock off most of this mud and I'll meet you at the door."

_

* * *

Chikushō, this boy is in bad shape! No wonder Yoshi sent him to me._

Having finally convinced Kenshin that his clothes really did need washing, and that the yukata really was a spare, and that the laundry was already scheduled to be done today, Gozaemon mused on what he'd seen as the filthy rags had come off. Scars. Not too many, or too deep, but, by their shapes and locations, clearly from the razor-sharp hasaki of a katana.

_He certainly didn't get those skinning up trees or laboring in a field._

Ribs, elbows, knees: much too near the surface. Skin cracked and flaky from privation and exposure. Movements slow; slight tremor in weak limbs.

_Looks like we got to this one just in time. _

Lowered gaze, bowed head.

_From humility? Not exactly: something else, I think._

Oh, yes, and a curious pair of objects: a child's well-worn wooden top, and a woman's tanto, the latter hidden quickly under a nearby tatami. Not quite quickly enough.

* * *

The sky still glowed faintly, but the boy was already asleep, having nearly collapsed into his miso soup and rice. Gozaemon lit his pipe and inhaled deeply of the first delicious lungful. As the sweet vapor wreathed his head, he leaned back against the wall, savoring the soft, light evening breeze that caressed his wizened cheeks.

_He is quiet, almost mute. I think this one carries much pain._

He pondered his observations: eyes that glowed eerily with a banked intensity and contrasted disturbingly with the low, flat voice and the reserved, almost slave-like demeanor. He had a feeling he was merely a pause on a path of pain.

* * *

The past week had brought changes.

_Such a fast recovery – the boy's healthy, no doubt about that!_

His muscles had fleshed out, his skin had regained its tone and color, and his endurance, as evidenced in his work around the place, was incredible.

_Whatever he used to do, the kid's an athlete!_

Although the boy didn't welcome questions, Gozaemon had managed to drag out of him a meager history: early orphaning; hints of an eccentric rearing.

_He's had a dark life, that he has. Well, at least he's a good listener; it's nice to have someone to talk at!_

They spent their days working companionably in the garden and tending the small flock of scraggly chickens. Gozaemon was not put off by Kenshin's silence. The old man missed an audience, and he chattered happily about his children, now grown and moved away, that's the way of young people nowadays, you know, they don't appreciate stable roots; village gossip, although he didn't like to pass on tales only you wouldn't believe what the elders have been up to; and reminisced tenderly about his now long-departed wife, how ever had she put up with him all that time. Seemingly absorbed in his tales, his old eyes were yet sharp enough to take in the boy's pain-filled face and the catch in his breathing when this last subject came up.

_Ah … too bad for one so young._

As the days passed, Kenshin took over many of the routine chores. He had a way with the stew pot, and a penchant for laundry. Gozaemon gladly released these tasks to the boy, happy more for how they seemed to soothe the youngster than for his own relief of them. The small tense face relaxed, absorbed in balancing seasonings or in working soft white suds and clear cool water through coarse country fabric. Real peace softened the features; once a flickering smile disturbed its constant solemnity when the boy gazed in obvious satisfaction at the full line of clean clothes snapping in the breeze.

* * *

There had been a curious event only a few days after his arrival.

Once the haze of starvation had lifted a bit, the boy became aware of his ragged appearance. He began to comb his hair every day, and to tie it neatly into a high ponytail. Although too young to have much of a beard, his cheeks were nevertheless fuzzier than real tidiness allowed. Gozaemon had been pondering how to offer his own razor without offense, when one morning he noticed Kenshin peering at himself in the well water's surface. The boy's hand went to his face, and he seemed to see himself for the first time. Gozaemon had already marked the boy's penchant for order and cleanliness, so was not surprised to recognize the outer evidence of the inner epiphany: "I need to shave!"

Before he could offer it, however, Kenshin turned abruptly and made for his corner of the cottage, reemerging momentarily with the woman's tanto. Bending over the well, he removed the blade from its saya.

Suddenly, the youth stiffened, wide eyes fixed on the naked steel in his hand. His ghastly expression bristled the hairs at the nape of Gozaemon's neck.

_What's happening here?_

Long moments passed; neither man moved. A cloud covered the sun; the breeze freshened; Gozaemon shivered. Even at this distance, he could see Kenshin's body trembling slightly, every muscle tense, sudden sweat standing out on his brow.

Then the neighbor's damned dog ran through the yard, yapping at nothing again, and the spell was broken.

_How bizarre._

For the rest of the day, the boy had been even more withdrawn. It was the next afternoon before the pall had lifted and Kenshin's mood had lightened from this sepulchral muteness to its customary sobriety.

_This one is in deep, n'desu ne?_

* * *

He felt stronger every day now, his mind clearer, his body increasingly free of pain. Although it had taken effort to allow sleep to come with someone else in the room, he'd learned to rest at night.

_No night terrors to trigger questions._

A few of the villagers had noticed the young man working in Gozaemon's garden, and he had suggested the boy's services to them, knowing the little sums of cash would be welcome. It had worked, though few words were exchanged in any of these transactions. The villagers regarded him curiously, but he was used to that. He avoided their eyes; they remained calm.

Market days were surprisingly hectic: the village's location pulled both buyers and sellers from the widely-scattered farms in the surrounding area, and the little center square bustled and buzzed with earnest dickering, glad long-time-no-see's, delighted, scandalous gossip, and generally high spirits. Threading his way through the throng tested his skills, but he never sloshed the tofu's water nor dropped the sack of salted fish.

"Oi! Watch where you're going!" A stumbling gang of rowdy youths, oozing the smell of too much sake, accosted the small shopper.

Turning, Kenshin let his gaze rest on his accuser, who flinched visibly, but wasn't sober enough to back off.

"You're that stranger, aren't you? Are you still leeching off us? Why don't you just leave?"

Tensing for an altercation—_Chikushō, again no weapon!_—Kenshin readied his stance. This was not lost on anyone. Two other youths moved in: "Seta! Drop it! Let's go. Remember what we heard." They hustled their friend away, and the moment passed.

Now it began: once again, whispers hissed as he passed. Again, eyes averted anxiously at his approach, surreptitiously turned to follow his retreating figure. "Revolutionary soldier." "Ishin shishi." And even, once, as from the depths of a nightmare: "Assassin!"

_It is time I left._

* * *

"Please pardon my intrusion, Gozaemon-sama. May I speak with you for a moment?"

"Kenshin-bozu. Come, sit beside me in this beautiful sunset."

"Arigato gozaimashita."

A small comfortable silence.

_This man, at least, does not fear me._

"You have something to tell me?"

"Hai."

"I'm listening."

"Gozaemon-sama, you have been more generous and kind than this unworthy one deserves."

"My boy, please don't start that again. Your help around here has abundantly repaid any little trouble I might have taken on your behalf, and I have enjoyed your company."

"You have said so."

Again, silence.

_Like pulling teeth with this boy!_

Gozaemon shifted his position to look Kenshin full in the face. "I'm still listening, son."

"It is time for me to leave."

This was not entirely unexpected. Gozaemon had heard about the incident in the town, and he was not grown so old that his ears missed the hushed whispers; his eyes, the apprehensive glances.

"Are you sure?"

"Hai. This peaceful place finds me intrusive."

"I, for one, will miss you."

"Domo arigato. And I, you."

"I understand. When?"

"At first light."

"I can give you nothing but my blessings."

"Arigatou gozaimashita, Gozaemon-san. That is more than enough for this traveler. Domo arigatou."

Dusk deepened. Stars began to twinkle above.

Gozaemon rose, knocking the ashes out of his pipe.

"Follow me, boy."

He went to a small chest in the back room of the house. Lifting its lid released a heavy, musty aroma. In the dim light, Kenshin could see this was the old man's memory box. It held folded clothing, women's combs, a few worn and faded toys: the detritus of a full, but shortening, life.

"I don't know why I hang on to these things; they'll just be tossed when I go. Where is that … Ah, here it is!"

Triumphantly, he held aloft a folded garment of the most astonishing color.

"This belonged to my grandson, but when my son moved his family to the City, it got left behind. When I look at it, I can still see the day he fell out of the tree behind the chicken coop. Yes, that great huge one! He's lucky he didn't break his neck: youth is wonderfully resilient, I suppose.

"Anyway, it should just about fit you, and that blue rag of yours isn't going to last much longer."

* * *

Gozaemon straightened and stretched his aching back. He already missed the silent presence, always at his elbow, quick to catch the other basket handle, or to relieve him of an over-filled water bucket. He rummaged around in his gi and pulled out the pendant, fingering it thoughtfully.

He sighed, tucked it back away, and returned to his garden.

* * *

The traveler adjusted the strap holding his small bundle, and turned for a last look at the tiny village.

_Live in peace, old honored one._

_

* * *

Well, it's a start. She shrouded the blaze of her brilliant midday for a few hours, just this once.__

* * *

Notes:_

"hasaki" : the cutting edge of a blade

_

* * *

Review responses: **Chibi Binasu-chan:** Thanks for reading and reviewing all 3 chapters at once! Your language usage comments made me go dig a bit, and I wouldn't have done that without them! However, I didn't get them until after chapter 3 had already been posted, so I'm answering them all here. Chapter 1: According to my Japanese friend, "wakarimashita" is commonly used in this context, and it has a meaning more like "I have understood what you just said." She says that "wakarimasu" more likely would be used sort of as you are going along, perhaps when someone is relating something complicated, and you are indicating in stages that you are still following them. Chapter 2: If I understood her correctly, "dame desu ne" is commonly used to mean something like: "It's impossible for me to do such a bad thing." Chapter 3: Per your review: Ah, now I get it! And you're right, "Pause" is only the chapter title, not an indication of a pause in updating. **omasuoniwabanshi:** I had hoped the "gi thing" wasn't too obvious or boring; glad you liked it! And I'm so glad you liked the tanto part. It seemed to me that he would be of two minds about that: having carried it around with him, he'd sort of superficially think of it as a usable blade, but actually having it unsheathed in front of him would trigger flashbacks, etc. **moeru himura:** Now I'm confused about the 'cute' thing, since there wasn't another scene with a child in it (was there? have I lost track?). I'm being deliberately vague about the year and location, because Kenshin has actually lost track of time and place, as well. I'm not exactly sure what you mean by "Gozaemon's indifference". Let me know and I'll try to clarify. **WolfDaughter, lolo popoki:** Thanks for the kind words, and, especially, for continuing to read! **misaoshiru:** I'm glad you liked the cultural references. I'm also reading Heian stuff right now, and some of it really seems to fit. **LadyRhiyana:** Yes, I threw in the "scraggly facial hair" partly because it is so easy to think of him as a man, but, really, he's still just a kid in many ways. **SiriusFan13:** I've changed to trying to use Japanese only when I need the "flavor"—I agree that's much better. I'm glad you like this "history" I'm making up for him. **IKnowNot:** I'm glad this read better for you. **Shirou Shinjin:** Okay, I'm choosing to skip past the guy who used to be a machine and the brachiosaurus and the non-Tenken, and instead descend like a hawk onto the phrases I prize most highly in reviews: "Kenshin is spot on" and "perfectly in character"! These always make me happy since, for me, whatever else happens to him (like forgetting to turn up at Toba Fushimi), if Kenshin isn't Kenshin, what is the bloody point? The colour? The colour? slaps forehead I have to tell you everything, don't I? (I haven't read that yet, but it's on my short list…) It's more difficult than I'd imagined working Amaterasu into these chapters; there's the lack of hands and the whole orbital plane problem…_


	4. Chapter 4 Aoi

_Notes and review response are at the bottom._

**Chapter 4 - Aoi  
**_"Heart-to-heart" is the name of a plant with heart-shaped leaves. To the exquisitely symbolic mind of the Heian era, its use in wrappings of letters and missives signified intimacy._

"It's good to see you hale and hearty, my old friend!"

"Oi! Don't sneak up on me like that—you nearly gave me a heart attack! How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to watch you hoe that row nearly into a ditch. How you make anything grow is beyond me."

"Hmph. As if you're any kind of a gardener."

"I can't argue with you there. I'm not much good at anything but iron and steel, and that's a fact. Well, are you going to make us some tea?"

"I'm coming, I'm coming! Let me put these tools away; I'm done anyway for today. You know where the teapot is – go ahead and put the water on the fire while I wash up."

* * *

A tiny bright-silver disc made its stately way across the velvety, midnight-blue sky, sailing serenely high above both teller and listener. The big tree behind the chicken coop rustled softly in the slight movement of the cool night air. Twin columns of tobacco smoke drifted lazily from twin bowls glowing red under the soaring spangle of stars.

Constellations wheeled; smoldering ashes dimmed. Night creatures stirred, then settled and slept. The Teller hushed, his tale finished.

The Listener knocked the spent ashes out of his pipe and pulled a worn pouch out of his sleeve. Loosening its drawstring, he pinched out a dark-brown, aromatic lump, and packed it tightly into the still-warm bowl. The Teller declined the offered refill. The Listener re-stowed the pouch, then reached back through the doorway for a small stick of kindling, touched it to the banked fire in the stove, and brought it out, shielding it against the draft. Concentrating on this important task, he puffed in practiced rhythm, and the bowl leapt to life. "I wondered why you returned so quickly."

"When I saw that mei, I knew that katana was meaningful, even aside from its strange form. That, combined with that hair and scar… So I asked around in the swordsmiths' community. They certainly knew exactly who I had seen, and then, well, I had to make sure you were all right, that I hadn't foolishly endangered you."

The old one reflected before speaking. "I'm curious: what made you pick him out for rescue?"

It was Yoshi's turn to consider his thoughts carefully. "I'm not sure. Of course, his need was dire, but it was more than that. I was with him for only a few hours, but it didn't take even that long to detect someone going under for the last time."

"My feeling, too. Life has dealt him a harsh hand, that it has."

The tsubako nodded in the silent dark. "He's killed, you know. Many, if the reports are to be believed."

"I know. He has scars."

"Well, scars don't necessarily…"

"Chigaimasu! That kind of scar."

"Ah."

"I haven't seen scars like that since… Well, that was another lifetime for both of us, wasn't it?" He waved a dismissive hand; this subject was well-worn between them. "He has also lost, and lost deeply, I'm sure of that."

"What do you mean?"

"He didn't open up easily—you noticed that yourself—but I'm not so obtuse either, you know. I think there must have been someone important, once." He puffed slowly, thoughtful gaze focused somewhere deep within. "Odd: he seems beset by guilt over it, too, somehow."

"Still, I don't believe he poses any kind of danger. Are you thinking he should be tracked down, or someone warned, or anything like that?"

"No, not at all. My instincts agree with yours. It's true that he has a long, dark valley ahead of him. He's only just started his journey, but he has strength. More than he realizes, even. That one will come out all right in the end."

Yoshi hugged his cloak closer to him against the damp night air. "'The end'. And to what end do you think his path will lead him?"

Gozaemon leaned back against the wall of the cottage, raised his chin, and sighed from the depths of his years. His old, pale eyes searched the stars. "That, my old friend, is the question, is it not?"

_

* * *

Notes:_

"chigaimasu" : "difference" (polite form, used to indicate that things are quite contrary to what was just said)

_

* * *

Review responses: **moera himura:** Oh, I get it now! (sometimes you have to use words of fewer than 2 syllables with me!) **lolo popoki:** I'm glad you liked this conversation. I was a little uncertain about it. After all, nothing "really happens" here! **omasuoniwahbanshi:** Thanks for the compliments about the setting. I like it when other authors take the trouble to "put me in the picture", so I'd hoped this worked here, too! **Chibi Binasu-chan:** I write "delicately"? blush Thanks! And you are certainly welcome for the reviews; they were most heartfelt! **WolfDaughter:** "without being wordy or breaking the flow of the story": high praise, indeed! Thanks! RE a "side story": you reviewers have me thinking seriously about that. I like these guys, too, so I think I will research the era better and see if I can come up with something postable! **SiriusFan13:** Hmm …a longer timeframe … I hadn't considered that, but now you have me thinking about it! (and don't even think the word "inadequate" in the same thought as "Out of Time"! hmmph! It is such a finely-crafted story; I stand in awe of it!) **Wistful-Eyes:** A new reviewer! Yaaaaay! But, please: I'm not at all really knowledgable about "Japanese ways"! I have a Japanese friend, and my daughter studies the culture, so I mine their minds, so to speak! I plan to do more research, however, especially about this era! **Mir:** I love your work, so I'm extremely pleased you are reading this! **IKnowNot:** I'm sorry this chapter wasn't up to par—I'll try to do better in the future. **Shirou Shinjin:** Later, I discovered that the purpose of this chapter was just to let me write more about Gozaemon and Yoshi. I don't know whether they'll show up farther down the road, but they've shoved their way more centrally into my other chaptered fic, "A Good Deed." Although I like these guys, this chapter makes even me squirm—I keep feeling as though Yoda is going to pop into frame at just any old point…_


	5. Chapter 5 Enoshima Part I

_Review responses are at the end._

**Chapter 5 – Enoshima – Part I  
**_Benzaiten, the Buddhist goddess of music, poetry, learning, art, and the goddess of the sea and protector of children, married a child-eating dragon and was thus able, through her good influence, to put an end to the slaughter of little children. Their union gave birth to Enoshima Island._

For some time now, his dreams have been exclusively of her. Sometimes they walk together from the cottage to the village, carrying their wares; in other dreams, they tend their garden, or just sit by the open shoji, gazing at the nighttime stars. Often, he watches—watches as she writes in her journal; marvels as she stands by the water's edge, the reflected sunlight dancing on her perfect, delicate face; sees her bend to meet the small upturned face of another mother's child. _Her children never made it to this world._

She speaks to him, nurtures him with her soft voice. Her ocean of tenderness floods over him; the blessing of her unexpected love startles him anew. He can never remember exactly what she says, but now he wakes in peace, lying quietly as long as he can to savor the sweet fading images before rising to start the day.

The night's visitations: she is so real to him then. He escapes, briefly, that awful cavern carved by her death, by her murder.

The day: this, now, is the dreamworld. The day: denied the comfort of the night, every hour drags him further and further from their sundering. Again and again, as his mind idles, rises the thought: _Surely we are not parted forever. Where is the path? It seems just out of reach …_

His battered heart nearly fails under these memories. The years of emptiness, his future—a trackless desert—stretches infinitely before him. The very weight of it crushes him, extinguishing any hope of enduring life beyond this single moment.

Again he only sits and breathes. _Why do I yet live? Is there no release?_ Yet, there is something… something in this pain that is important, that she would have him understand. _What, beloved? Tell me, make it plain._

Gradually, tentatively, he allows himself to recall more and more of that dreadful morning, to re-live it without verging on collapse:

_Again, he awakes to her puzzling absence; her neatly folded scarf resting on his breast. Again, Iizuka arrives with his appalling accusations. Denying the unbelievable, the unendurable, he re-opens her journal. Always at the same lines on the same page, his world, his nascent happiness, disintegrates. He feels his scar split and begin to seep; sees the drops from his cheek stain the pristine white of the page and liquefy the black ink, watches as the anguished amalgam overflows the edge and puddles on the floor._

_Again, he dresses in an unthinking, hasty fog; picks up both his katana and her scarf in one hand. I must bring her back; they will discard her. He opens the shoji of their retreat onto a world they both yet inhabit. He slides it shut, unaware, then, that a part of their life together has just blinked out behind him. He trudges up the mountainside, unmindful that each step destroys that much more of their fledgling happiness. _

_He is hastening to their end._

_He is stunned afresh by the ambushes—attacks that blind him, blow out his eardrums, disable his limbs, sap his strength. I must bring her back; they will discard her. He falls but rises, struggling stubbornly, desperately, against the fresh powder that pulls him down, against the mountainside that rises obstructively before him, against his mind's disorder that cripples his very core._

_When he reaches the hideout, he is barely conscious. Again, he senses his enemy's presence and movement, but can only strike out blindly, wildly, futilely, blindsided by return blows that further weaken him. Still, he does not fall._

_Again, he feels his cursed, obstinate strength quicken, summoning energy from his surroundings. If I had fallen then, and not risen, would she still…? Insensible of the quick, heedless approach, he prepares his body and his sword; every part of him, every nerve, every cell focuses to execute his powerful, deadly, inexorable swing. He feels the clean, sure connection, cleaving bone and muscle wide open; feels it stop only when its unspent force buries it deep, through the snow, in the ground at his feet. _

_It is finished._

_At his feet, reddening and melting the immaculate new snow, lay two bodies, both felled with his single stroke. He sees but can't comprehend: a white kimono. Ebony tresses spread wide on the white crystals. The pale, precious face even paler._

_He drops in disbelief and denial; gathers her into nerveless arms. He can feel her life ebbing. As he clasps her hemorrhaging form to himself in distraught desperation, willing the gaping rift repaired, she pours out love and forgiveness. As she traces the new, absolving cut with her tanto, severing and sealing the old, vengeful one, he pours out his soul. _

_These are the last acts they share._

The nightly dreams urge him to embrace this daily meditation, to indulge in it, to submerge himself. _What can this mean? Why should I see it over and over again?_ However, when he obeys, he finds he feels lighter; feels her draw near, as though only there may they reunite. As though there, in that last wretched moment of wrenching, she yet stands to bestow what he most seeks: her essence, his heart, their future.

For long weeks, this is how his daily wheel turns—vivid, seductively soothing dreams; murky diurnal hours of work and remembrance. He moves slowly, not covering much ground, at least not along the dusty road.

His heart is another matter. His memories range wide over the span—the breadth, the width, the depth—of the brief life they shared. Images of her in their tiny home: moving gracefully with their modest meals; her nightly moments at her journal; her magical way of keeping their few things ordered. Images of her in their garden, on their walks through the forest or by the lake. Earlier images, from the time in the City—in the rain, working at the inn, her profile against the stars.

Images of her with the villagers—so attentive, so tender. Rare was the person who failed to leave her presence with a lighter step, an easier smile, a freer heart. Children especially flocked to her. Sometimes she seemed to be borne on a sea of them, each squeezing to be an inch closer, to be the one to hold her hand or to clutch the hem of her kimono. She hardly spoke, only listened and saw, but her solemn affirmation of each radiated subtly, drawing all to her; then released them on their way, blessed with a new peace.

He sees everything, recalls it all. Nothing is lost; nothing has faded.

Now he knows her better than he ever did while her form walked beside him. He is able to savor his growing understanding of the person who loved him, who saved him, who opened him to himself, as well as to her.

_She, too, changed during those few months, didn't she?_ Re-living their time together, he understood that they both had arrived at Ōtsu in confused distress. He began to recognize the small signs of her own growth: she stood closer to him; she touched his arm, actually took it sometimes as they watched the sunset together; she spoke more freely, and gave him her smile when he turned his gaze toward her. These changes had matched his own: her touch no longer startled him; the sight of her soothed something deep within him. He found himself watching her, studying her, drinking in her graceful movements. His muscles relaxed at her nearness.

Now, comes sweetly back to him the little tune she had begun to hum sometimes to herself as she would prepare their meals or fold the futon for the day. Ah, yes—he had begun to track her more by that melody even than by his own keen senses, senses now curbed in the safety of their sanctuary.

He well remembers the first time they had shared that futon.

_The late afternoon brought a gentle snowfall, the first of the season, softening the sunset with its drifting flakes. As the sun withdrew, the world hushed and stilled, seeming to shrink until they were its only inhabitants; Ōtsu, the only place; their fire, the only warmth._

_In spite of the chill, they lingered unusually long on the engawa; it was full dark before he stirred and turned to face her. "Shall we go inside?" Her returned gaze was full and slow; her eyes seemed to glow darkly in the moonlight._

_She didn't speak, but took his hand in hers and rose. His eyes still held by hers, he seemed to float up to stand beside her, then followed her into the dim room._

_Once inside, she paused, and tilted her head to the side a little, her face slowly softening from its normal reserve, her eyes warming. With a tiny bow of her head, she released his hand, backed a step, and moved toward the screen that defined her private refuge._

_He remained where he was a moment, not grasping what had just happened, then began to ready himself for the night._

_Few times in his life had he ever experienced the luxury of meditation, of the emptying of the mind, the stilling of the spirit, the standing-down of alertness. Now, during their evenings, while she changed out of her day and into her night clothes, while she brushed and braided her silken hair, while she wrote in her journal, he simply let these small sounds carry him away. The rustle of silk being shed then folded, the crispness of cotton being donned and tied, the almost-inaudible whisper of hairbrush through black locks. She would settle in before her desk, open her journal and inkset, mix the ink. He never heard her write; the soft brush against the paper was as silent as cats' feet. By the time she was ready to put out the light and bank the fire, he would be in a delicious trance in his swordsman's crouch against the wall—not yet asleep, but unresponsive to any except the most dire claims on his attention._

_This night, however, he did not reach his trance. Moments after he heard the quiet snap of the drawer now containing her hairbrush, she emerged from behind the screen. Curious, he opened and raised his eyes to find her standing before him, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes on him. "It is so cold. Won't you rest under the comforter tonight?"_

_At first, he didn't comprehend. The thought had never occurred to him—cold never bothered him. He always slept, always had slept, in this same position against a wall, against this wall, against so very many walls. He considered the idea. He doubted he could actually rest, much less sleep, lying down fully. But her face was so very intense, and she so rarely asked anything at all of him._

_When he did not immediately respond, she lowered her gaze, and turned back to the futon. He watched, mesmerized, as she slipped under the comforter, holding up the edge long enough to arrange her yukata around her legs, then settled down under the fluffiness. A moment longer till he blinked and stirred. Hai, I will join her._

_A single, fluid movement, and he stood by the futon. He lifted the comforter corner nearest him; he stopped at her small intake of breath, but the welcoming curve of her lips re-assured him. He laid his katana right at the edge of the bedding, and slipped in, his right hand only a hairsbreadth from his blade's hilt._

_Their eyes locked for a long moment, gauging each other's anxiety, neither prepared to presume._

_Then, with her own single, fluid movement, she was nestled against him, her head on his left shoulder, her entire warm, smooth body conformed to his side. Wonderingly, he found his arm, almost of its own accord, curved around her back and waist, his hand resting lightly, naturally, on her hip. Automatically, his face sought and buried itself in the cloud of her hair. Her scent—hers, not white plums—assailed his senses, made him giddy. Is this what it feels like to faint…_

_He could not remember when he'd been this close to another body. Not even in battle had he experienced this intensity of physical contact, much less this open vulnerability. And yet—he checked—he was not tense. His muscles remained loose, his ki, composed. _

_They lay together serenely, floating on this neap tide of intimacy. He felt her drift off, felt the small spasms that signaled her surrender to the arms of Morpheus. He smiled in the dark, pleased with himself, though he couldn't think why._

_Finally, hours later, drunk on this healing elixir, he joined her in sleep._

_

* * *

Notes:_

"neap tide" : a tide of minimum range. This tiny surge of intimacy is a tentative first step for these two damaged, bereft people.

_

* * *

Review responses: **lolo popoki:** I'm so glad that scene pleased you; I was really going for their burgeoning trust. **Chibi Binasu-chan:** This is the first "fluff" I've written, so I was really uncertain about it. Yes, I think there will be more Tomoe, but I'm not sure just exactly when/how. **omasuoniwabanshi:** "make you sigh in contentment"? "work of art"? Omigod, what a high bar you set for me! **Marlingrl:** Thanks for the praise! I hope his growth along that long road meets with your approval! **Wistful-Eyes:** I'm dancing myself over your words! By the way, what's "cyz"? **Sailor-Earth13:** Thanks for the kinds words about my OCs; I hoped they didn't detract from Kenshin at all, but people seem to like them. Did the italics thing get fixed for you? It doesn't come up that way for me, so I wasn't sure how to fix it. **moeru himura:** Well, it looks like you certainly don't need to apologize for the late review, since I forgot to include these responses in my first upload of this chapter! I'm glad you liked the forest fight; that was really a dramatic part of the OVA, and I hoped to do it justice. **WolfDaughter:** Thanks for your off-line review after I e-mailed you the chapter; your praise means a lot to me. : **IKnowNot:** Well, thanks for continuing to read, anyway! **Shirou Shinjin:** Vogonity? How dare you, sir? I'll have you know there is very little metaphysical imagery in this chapter, and no rhythmic devices whatsoever ! clears throat Now that's out of the way… arrgh! How did I manage to write that last flashback so ineptly that (almost) NO ONE gets that NOTHING (of that sort of thing, anyway) happened? That is The Whole Point: neither one of them is in any emotional condition to fall into futon like rabid minks—they are doing well to even sleep the entire night in the same room night after night!_


	6. Chapter 6 Enoshima Part II

_Review responses are at the end._

**Chapter 6 – Enoshima – Part II**

After that night, much was different between them. Often, on turning to catch a glimpse of her as she weeded the garden or hung up laundry to dry, he found her eyes already on him, watching him chop firewood or carry in a basket of radishes. She brushed his hair in the evenings; he learned to ask for tea, rather than simply accepting it when she would make it on her own impulse. They made dinner as a couple, the one chopping vegetables, the other seasoning or stirring, and sat beside each other to eat it. They slept together often, and discovered the joys of the tender wakening at dawn, of the turning to a beloved face, still composed in sleep or already awake and watching, of the first quiet smile of the day, of the shared stretching and rising in the slanting sunlight.

These tiny bursts of intimacy, strewn throughout their days and nights, carried him far from the world he had known. Enemies, blood, violence, loss, revenge—all faded and dropped away. There was only the present. And each other.

They didn't speak of the past, nor even—perhaps especially—of a future. They were merely grateful to be allowed to float for a time in a side-eddy of life's rushing river, equally having forgotten and forgotten by the world and its threats. Kenshin had never truly felt at home in the world, never had known pure safety in the presence of others. Always there had been dreaded demands, unnerving uncertainties, disastrous disconnects. He began to suspect they had this in common, too. Now they basked in their shared asylum. They breathed it in, took it in through their very pores.

He mused over the contrast: in Kyoto, he'd earnestly discouraged her attentions, even spurned her; he'd warned her not to get involved with someone so bloody. In Ōtsu, his every breath, his very heartbeat, depended on her nearness—no, more than nearness: she'd moved into his soul; he no longer existed without her.

_Does she feel the same? _He shook his head. _Impossible. She knows who I am, what I've done, how I've lived. All the same, she does seem contented, even happy…_

"_This is the best sake I've ever tasted."_

"_You're right."_

* * *

He's discovered where he is. His river had taken him down to the sea, and he'd followed the coast road south, carried along on the tide of merchant caravans taking goods destined for that other kingdom to ports along the coast. Now that he's begun to travel north, the returning merchant caravans, bringing goods back to the interior, provide work, and a ready source of cash and daily fare.

He finds that nearly every day he can earn a little something. This road had its share of merchant caravans, and they nearly all needed an extra hand, "just for a couple of hours; we can't pay much." So much the better. A couple of hours are about all either he or his temporary masters can take of each other, and his needs are small.

In the mornings, he usually joins a caravan and stays with it all day, keeping animals and children in line, re-tying loosened knots, hauling water at rest stops. Not much is said, but he can tell his help brings real relief to the harried travelers, even if they seem almost not to notice him in his quiet efficiency. They almost always settle up at evening; he's been cheated only once or twice.

In fact, his small purse has a noticeable weight hanging inside the ties of his hakama; he feels it as he walks.

At the back of his mind, he's returning to the City. He has not yet realized the profound indefensibility of this plan, has not accounted the scores of scores held over from the days of chaos.

Merchants speak of exchange rates, or desirable goods, or crop failures. They keep their books; feed their drays; repair their wagons. Merchants know little of, and are interested less in, the detritus of the revolution: the imperialists with nothing more to strive for; the swordsmen now banned from carrying their bodies' natural extensions; the vanquished, embittered Shogunate loyalists.

Merchants do not suffer the dark night of the soul.

However, now that he's paying attention, he, at least, becomes all too aware of the other wanderers on the road: rudderless souls all, bereft of mission or cause, finding only fading grudges in the bitter bottoms of their sake cups. He has used the presence of his sword and the power of his ki to intimidate subconsciously, to prevent misfortune befalling these new-era innocents under his care. As he moves closer to the City, the numbers of the disenfranchised increase; the significance is not lost on him.

He notices, too, the increase in the number of bodies floating down the river; many of them, children—scrawny, mere skeletons inside their ballooned clothing, bodies unable to even bloat properly. Famine is rife, and the children fare worst of all.

This shocks and disturbs him, and he cannot say why—children have never figured greatly in his life. His own early chronology placed him almost exclusively in the company of adults; the concept of 'playmates' is foreign to him, and, while he has watched children at play, that world has always been a mystery to him.

_When have I watched children at play?_ There certainly had been none in the mountain cabin with Hiko, nor at the Kohagiya, and he'd been the only child in the slave train; his memories before that are too fuzzy.

Still, the small bodies drifting lightly, delicately, on the river's tide call to him, engrave themselves in his mind's eye, float constantly at the back of his mind.

* * *

He never sleeps within the caravans' campgrounds—he needs more distance than that. Instead he searches out a nearby shelter, close enough to listen and guard, but distant enough for privacy, for a break from the overwhelming presence of all that humanity. All that energy and life.

These days, he finds he can think again. Ideas come. His perceptions widen, and the world colors once more. He raises his eyes again to the distant, azure sky. The earth's breathing and the rustling of its creatures caress his ears. _It is most fair. Hai, its beauty yet moves me._ This is not altogether a comforting thought; he cannot shake the feeling of betrayal.

_She is not sharing this with me. _

_Each day separates us further._

* * *

The caravans move slowly; he moves slowly. He doesn't cover much ground, at least not along the dusty road. This suits him—his spirit is busy.

A day like any other: He's been with this caravan for a week. It's a particularly disorganized affair—the merchants, a loose confederation of three, are distracted, and the head steward is inexperienced. There are innumerable stops to argue over routes, which markets to visit, pricing strategies. The querulous voices carry far, and the attentions of all are focused inward. _It's a good thing I'm here—this group is begging for trouble._

All three merchants are older, and no longer up to the heavy work of hefting the heavy bolts of silk. _Even harnessing the horses is more than they should be doing at their age._ With the exception of the lead wagon driver, who is large and competent, there are no other males capable of handling the "back" work required in even so small a train as this.

The women seem to be granddaughters, or lost sons' widows, or hangers-on, and the number of children is simply staggering. The older girls chatter incessantly; one or two try out their fledgling flirting skills on him—his lack of response is impressively effective. The younger boys are a surging sea of energy, their boisterous shouts of joy, of irrepressible life, echo off the canyon walls. They race wildly up and down alongside the lumbering wagons, spooking the horses, and deviling the littlest girls, who respond with indignantly delighted squeals and shrieks. The heartbroken wails of the infants, grieving a broken toy or a dropped snack, float above the cacophony like the violin obbligato of some crazed symphony.

Kenshin is never quite able to match up child to mother with certainty. He is aware, however, of something moving within him as he watches these children at play. His heart is captivated by this unfamiliar world.

_They remind me of her. And they are beautiful—their movements flow with natural grace, and life, unfettered and full, glows in their faces._

At today's midday meal stop, Kenshin sits, as is his habit, a little apart, surveying the group and evaluating their surroundings. His dried fish and the rice ball are gone in moments, and he leans back against his chosen tree's rough trunk, for the moment simply a bump in the cool breeze's stream, another surface for the sun to warm, a non-flower rejected by a passing bee.

The meal is beginning to wind down. Some of the men have succumbed to the heat, cat-napping, and the boys are at it again, chasing each other through the dozing forms. He rises and stretches, brushing leaves from the back of his gi and hakama. With this group, it's better if he simply takes over this part—he'd tried teaching a couple of the men some better knots, but the atmosphere of distraction and confusion prevented much improvement. In just a few minutes, he's doused the little fire, scattering its remnants, and stowed all the meal paraphernalia. Rounding up would-be escapees from a too-distant stand of trees takes a little longer, but the mothers are grateful. They, at least, are able to keep track of their own once Kenshin has brought them back into the group.

He re-hitches the horses, and drops the feedbags into the back of the lead wagon. They stamp, and toss their heads, blowing and whickering softly.

_They are jumpy._

So, now that he comes to think of it, is he, and has been since they stopped. He stretches his senses, but can feel nothing. It's true that they are in rugged terrain, with small cliffs and overhangs, and this always puts him on higher alert. Still…

Finally, the group begins to move off. He stands back a bit from the road, allowing the bustle to move past him, waiting to take up his usual position at the rear.

_Such a different technique from bodyguarding._

They've been walking about an hour when he senses it: ki, threatening and ominous. Not too far ahead, probably around that bend in the road.

_How many? Three—iie, only two._

The horses are positively vibrating with tension, crab-stepping, champing their bits, swishing their tails in agitation. Somewhere inside, he marks to himself, again, man's arrogance on the subject of intelligence.

He makes his way forward through the caravan. One by one, as he passes them, the mothers notice his alertness and draw their children near, shush infants, hoist smaller ones up onto wagons. Silence descends behind him like a fog.

When he reaches the front wagon, he puts up a hand to touch the driver's knee. Startled, the man's eyes widen; he signals his team—they halt eagerly, already reluctant to continue forward. They stand, tense but quieter now that they have stopped, their nervousness betrayed only by swiveling ears and shaking heads.

The entire tableau—wanderer, horses, men, mothers, children—is frozen in time, breath bated, apprehensive hearts thudding in concert. Kenshin stands at the fore, listening, sensing. He glances up at the lead driver and, with a small jerk of his head, signals for the man to follow.

In obedient silence, the man climbs down from the wagon's seat. They leave the road, Kenshin searching for a route to the top of the low bluff forming the cliff around which he knows the bandits wait.

_There is no time to waste—they must have seen us coming and will become suspicious if we delay. Ah, there they are…_

Creeping toward the edge, Kenshin peeks over the line of boulders that form the top of the rocky cliff, one hand behind him motioning "keep down". The bandits are clearly visible below, hunched behind boulders of their own at ground level, their backs to the new ambushers. They have no weapons beyond a couple of stout sticks.

Kenshin pulls back and puts his mouth close to his companion's ear: "I will make our presence known and ask them to leave us alone. Please stand next to me so they will see that a struggle will not go their way." The man nods his understanding.

Soundlessly, they stand and step up onto the rocks. "If you leave now, this will end peacefully."

At the sound of his voice, the two bandits nearly fall over each other in their rush to turn around. Although they quickly recover their stance and sticks, their predicament is painfully obvious: Kenshin and his companion hold the high ground, the wagon driver's size is intimidating, and there is that sword... Tentative shuffles backward notwithstanding, Kenshin can tell that the taller one is still waffling. A thumb on his tsuba, and the soft click of the sword's habaki sliding out of the saya's grip settles the question.

Both bandits slowly stand erect and lower their weapons. "What now?" asks the stockier of the two, their eyes meeting his with calm acceptance, but no fear.

The driver starts forward, clearly planning some satisfaction of his own kind, but Kenshin puts out a restraining hand. As he climbs down the shallow embankment, he considers the two, sizing them up. Their general condition would indicate they are rather more desperate than dangerous.

_They've never done this before, but they are strong and courageous._

"You two look hungry to me—are you willing to work for your keep?"

* * *

Kenshin watches as the caravan lumbers down the road away from him, dust clouds drifting lazily upward in the still summer heat.

_Two guards, and both big and strong enough to handle the horses, the merchandise, and any threats they are likely to encounter: a good arrangement._

_And I'm alone again—and free._ As always, parting brings him a palpable sense of relief.

_

* * *

Hai! Very good—now you must think hard about this. She's surprised at how her heart aches for this one.__

* * *

Notes:_

"that other kingdom" : In Japanese literature, China is often referred to as the "other kingdom". China had a strong, defining influence on Japanese culture. In fact, Kenshin spends some time there according to acts 3 and 4 of the OVA (second disk in the set I have).

_

* * *

Review responses: **lolo:** Thanks for the encouragement! **Mir:** I hope the ending wasn't too vague! sweatdrops **Chibi Binasu-chan:** I do plan to have more Tomoe-related flashbacks, so keep those cookies coming! **Omasu:** I'm glad you liked the detail stuff—I like writing it, and just hope I don't do so much that it takes the story off track. In fact, I'm a little worried about that in this chapter 7! **Wistful-Eyes:** I'm so glad you liked this chapter. I hope you enjoy the next one, as well. **Moeru Himura:** I not only don't mind if you put this on your C2, I'm very flattered! **IKnowNot:** I'm glad you think the story is progressing better. **Sirius:** Your reviews threaten to turn my head! "True writer"? If only… **Shirou Shinjin:** I guess I didn't think of his reminiscences and his preference for solitude as contrasts—to me they seemed to be all of an emotional piece. No fundamental dichotomy there! grin I'm hoping you meant that how he dealt with the bandits-to-be was "typical" instead of "atypical". If not, I'm not sure how it wasn't typical; I certainly meant it to be non-Battousai-ish._


	7. Chapter 7 Kankei

_A/N: Boundless thanks to SiriusFan13 for her invaluable beta work!_

_Review responses are at the bottom. I've started putting the responses at the bottom of the same chapter for which the review was given, so if you reviewed Chapter 6, you'll find my response to that review in Chapter 6 rather than in this chapter._

**Chapter 7 – Kankei  
**_"Connection"_

His weeks of solitude have refreshed and renewed him. Following his own path has afforded him a measure of peace: his energy has been his to direct; even his sleep has been deep and dreamless.

Leaving the interior, he followed the western shoreline northward. Traveling along the tops of sheer, high, rocky cliffs, he's experienced the vast ocean like never before: sunsets that stopped him in his tracks to marvel at the flames in the clouds above him; a raging storm that drove him into a serendipitous cave for an entire day and night and turned the ground in front of the cave into a torrent of mud, rocks, and broken tree limbs; sweltering winds that dried and cracked his skin.

Many days ago he passed the last real river mouth, a bustling fishing port. A couple of nights washing dishes and chopping firewood for a busy restaurant had replenished his coin purse, and he'd added tea to his pack and bought some new sandals, discarding the tattered soles that had been hanging by mere cords to the bottoms of his feet, before leaving behind the noise and chaos.

Now, along this part of the coast, the relatively narrow beach is bounded by low, rounded, grassy cliffs broken periodically by wide, water-carved ravines that snake their way inland. Out of these gorges trickle shallow, fresh-water rivulets and streams, meandering across the sand before disappearing into the salty foam of the sea.

A bit of paradise: rocky outcroppings form deep tidal basins, and small fish and crustaceans favor these protected harbors. Pools alongside the streambeds host a variety of fresh-water life. The vegetation blanketing the cliffs, although much of it foreign to his experience, provides an abundance of season-ripened berries. He's even managed to discover a few edible roots and greens.

The rush of the ocean, the whisper of the wind, the rustle of the trees: these are the sounds that accompany him during the day; these measure out the pace of his footsteps.

It has been a pleasant autumn.

This day starts like all the others. As usual, he arises with the earth itself, his eyes springing wide open at the slightest lifting of night. Familiar to him as his own skin, this hour has heralded the beginning of most of the days of his life. As the sky lightens, dark wisping away before the creeping dawn, so does sleep evaporate from his body. First birdsong falls on alert ears, and eager eyes watch the light for the moment he can begin his kata, for the moment of re-connection between spirit and weapon.

* * *

The principle of Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu states: "The sword of Mitsurugi should be wielded for the people of the world, for the protection of the weak."

Always, he starts right at the beginning: the melding of body and mind, the opening of the channel through which surges the union, the synchronicity that is his true self, in which he finds his center. Moving through the exercises, his body responds with increasing flexibility and strength, awakening players remember their parts, synapses re-connect, ki reasserts itself as master of the whole. Soon, he is entirely awake, focused, clear: the whole being rejoices.

Sweating slightly, he straightens and walks to where his sakabatou sleeps in its fabric sheath. For what's to come, he needs a large space, but also someplace where he can be sure he won't be interrupted. Or observed. He moves away from the shore, back through the scrubby forest topping this cliff, searching.

_Ah, here is a likely prospect._

A small canyon opens off an unexpected path that descends into the rocky ground. The sunken canyon is almost entirely enclosed by sheer walls, and the only opening to it is the very path he's followed, itself hidden from easy view.

He spends a few moments clearing some stones and fallen branches, then kneels in the center of the space, laying the sword on the ground before him. As he slips off the fabric and reveals the treasure within, his heart leaps in his breast, its beat thrumming powerfully. His breathing deepens; his eyes flame.

The dragon stirs in its slumber.

He closes his eyes and begins the shift in his spirit, the transformation that simultaneously condenses him to a singularity and spreads him wide across the sky, taking the whole world into his being.

Once, a comrade had asked him about this change, about his battle mien. He had tried to describe this heightened state of awareness, the way his senses unfurl, the deepening of his interior, his re-connection with the truths that strengthen and define him. The profound failure of this attempt had taught him how personal, how truly unique was this gift he had been given. This, his blessing and burden, that set him immutably apart.

He slips both palms beneath the sheathed katana, thrilling to the familiar weight as he lifts it briefly to his forehead in obeisance. His left hand falls into its accustomed place on the sheath, and in one motion, he sweeps away the discarded cloth with his right hand and rises to his feet, his extended left arm holding the sword horizontally at shoulder height. Gracefully, he flows into his battoujutsu crouch, feels it settle around him, into his muscles, his bones.

_This is what I am._

Suddenly, with a sigh of steel against wood, the dragon's claw is free. The canyon walls shudder with its power, surges of air pounding first one side, then the other. Man and blade fuse into a single, new creature. The Hiten Mitsurugi Dragon is dancing, and the very air crackles and breaks, falling around the whirling form in tatters. Every living thing freezes, in thrall to the swirling beauty and terror riding the crest of the dragon's breath as it floods the canyon and surges ferociously upward.

The battle-dance approaches its zenith; new urgency quickens the already blinding pace. The creature is everywhere at once, spinning, flipping, springing off the very air itself to reverse directions. The final swing hammers the ground, thunder reverberating in the small canyon, and the groaning earth splits and shatters at the creature's feet.

Gradually, the echoes die. Utter silence. Leaf by leaf, small thing by small thing, the frozen world thaws, moving cautiously lest the demon reawaken and renew its dread havoc.

He stands drained, gulping air, sweat trickling off him in rivulets and darkening the dust beneath his feet. His soul is peaceful and calm, blessedly clear.

* * *

By now, the crisp morning air, stirred and warmed by the approaching sun, has almost finished drying his freshly-washed skin and hair as he lies on his back, bare under the blue sky, letting the earth turn beneath him.

He remembers the surreal experience of his first indoor, hot bath. Not only had Hiko had "views" about the dangers of luxurious living, but training time was precious, and not to be frittered away filling and heating large tubs of water merely to bathe bodies when there was a perfectly good ice-melt river only steps away. Anyway, just keeping the cooking pots filled had satisfied all Kenshin's need for hauling heavy, slopping water buckets up slippery riverbanks and over dusty, root-entangled forest paths.

_At least one thing we'd agreed on…_

* * *

Takasugi's camp had been austere—there had been neither time nor money to waste on chefs or servants—but by Kenshin's standards, it might as well have been a spa. A rotational duty system released four men from training early each day: two to make the evening meal of rice, miso soup and fish, and two to start heating the water in the two large bathing rooms that served the entire camp's population. By the time the rest of the men were finished training, dinner was nearly ready and the baths were hot.

Sweating and jostling, the men would surge into the bathhouses, stripping and rough-housing as they went, sweat-drenched clothes forming Fuji-shaped piles next to the entrance. Two more men would be charged each day with doing the laundry after dinner.

Takasugi was not only an excellent judge and trainer of warriors, but ahead of his time in management skills. He saw to it that his men learned not only the discipline of the battlefield, but that of personal cleanliness, responsibility to his comrades, and efficient organization. They left his camp not only as sharp, valuable soldiers, but with the ability to rise to any occasion of leadership and decision.

On that first day, Kenshin had arrived at the camp in time for the noonday break, having taken all morning to cover the distance down the mountain and to the outskirts of Kyoto. Emboldened by his passion and urgency, he'd simply approached Takasugi and asked to be trained. The older man had listened in silence to the child's earnest pleas, then merely told him to help himself to a bowl of cold rice and a cup of tea from the table next to the crowd seated on the ground under some trees.

Kenshin was in.

Joining the others, he'd experienced for the first time the hush of fellow diners at his entry. His extreme youth and his curious appearance had piqued the curiosity of his new comrades. They had yet to take the measure of his skill, but most had heard his introductory polemic; that had been enough to discourage frivolous conversation, and they contented themselves with either ignoring him completely or silently sizing him up.

The afternoon's activities had surprised him: he knew this was not Hiten Mitsurugi, but still had been unprepared for the ease with which his sparring partners fell before him. At first, he thought they must have been taking it easy on him because he was new, but, as the hours passed, the puzzling changes in the others' faces and ki convinced him otherwise.

By the end of the day, he was being well and truly shunned. None had stood against him, not even the seniors. Strength was honestly valued and openly admired in the culture of the camp, and did not engender hard feelings among the group, but his impassivity and reserve, coming on the heels of his almost shocking excellence, had discouraged friendly overtures: no one had walked with him to the baths, nor had he been included in any of the group's chatter or levity. They simply didn't know what to make of him.

The bathhouse was a riot of hot mist and noisy camaraderie. He followed the example of the others and stripped, then stepped down into the sunken pool.

The unaccustomed heat on his feet and legs had startled him, and he quickly hopped back out, confused. Looking around disbelievingly, he saw men stretching slowly down into the steaming water, with blissful expressions and long, heavy sighs. Cautiously, he tried again, lowering himself carefully onto the seat that ran around the edge of the tub. This time, he'd found it not unpleasant.

He felt his muscles relax and his mind soften gently. He leaned back against the tub's edge and rested his head on the wooden slats that served as a floor.

"Pretty nice, ne?" a voice sounded right by his ear. Startled, he surged upright, swamping his neighbor.

Sputtering and clearing his eyes, the man grinned at the solemn boy. "Sorry to startle you."

"No… please forgive me for splashing you."

"Well, I was wet already, so no harm's done. This is your first day, isn't it? I'm Takawazi Kisuke. Welcome to our humble home." Kisuke gestured wide with a dripping arm, encompassing both the room and the crowd.

"Thank you. My name is Kenshin. Himura Kenshin. Yes, I just arrived today."

"You're awfully young for this, aren't you? You can't be much more than ten or eleven."

Taken aback by the man's error, Kenshin replied, "No! I'm fourteen."

Kisuke's eyes widened in disbelief, but he recovered smoothly, inclining his head slightly in apology. "Forgive me. I just thought…"

"No, it's all right. I do know I'm small for my age. I just don't think about it much."

"I saw you out there today. You're amazing! How is it you are so good at such a young age?"

Embarrassed, Kenshin dropped his unseeing gaze to the roiling murk enveloping them, clenching his fists on his knees. "I'm not very good. I didn't even finish my training. I… I left my shishou to come here, so my skills are incomplete."

"Incomplete!" Kisuke exclaimed in shock. "What can you mean? I can't imagine..."

Continuing as though Kisuke hadn't spoken, Kenshin raised his head and looked Kisuke full in the face, eyes blazing. "But I could no longer remain on that mountain, only watching while people suffer. I will use my skills to protect and save those who are being oppressed. And I will get better. Justice must be brought to the world, and I will be the one to do it."

Stunned into silence by the unexpected outburst, Kisuke could only stare at the transformed creature before him: one moment so silent and deferential, the next fairly bristling with passion and spirit. He blinked, then swallowed, then took a deep breath. He clapped the boy wetly on the shoulder and beamed at him. "Well, Kenshin, you may be just what this movement needs. And take it from me: you are very good indeed. I'm sure you will make a difference. I think you are destined for great things. Yes."

This, too, had surprised Kenshin. Hiko had certainly never seemed to think his deshi amounted to anything at all, much less could be valuable to the world.

"_A difference? Great things?"_ Kenshin's heart had risen within him at this thought. _"Shishou will be proud of me…"_

* * *

Dry now, he rises and retrieves his clothes from where he'd hung them on branches along the stream's bank, examining them for new tears.

_This thing doesn't look like it's going to last much longer. Even the patches have patches. Soon I'll have to break out that other gi._

At last evening's meal, he'd saved back one fish and a handful each of berries and seaweed. He carefully stokes the banked fire, re-kindling the flame back to life in the grey morning light. His bamboo cup, charred and blackened by the heat of many such fires, serves again to warm water for tea. He eats the fish cold, wrapped in the seaweed, and savors the berries one by one, their tart sweetness causing his eyes to squeeze shut.

Breakfast over, he stows his cup in his pack and scatters the fire, returning the site as closely as he can to its original state. He stands and stretches, but before starting off for the day, pauses a moment to thank the little clearing for its hospitality.

He walks steadily, easily, gathering up the miles, feeling the stretch in his legs, pleasantly empty of all but simple animal activity, except when a spot of particular beauty happens to capture his attention. Then he stops for as long as he needs to engrave the tableau in his mind, feeling the air stirring against his skin and in his hair, smelling the scents and hearing the noises of the ocean and the forest, drinking in the day's gift. In the past, stored delights like this have soothed him during many sleepless hours, and he treasures them.

Balmy breezes born of warm ocean currents wash over him, but when the wind turns and comes off the land, he distinctly detects the undertone of fast-approaching winter. Over the last few weeks, he's watched the deep green of late summer fade, consumed by autumn's flaming golds and reds. Soon, he knows, the increasing evening chill will layer the still pools with wafer-thin ice sheets, and mere days after that, snow flurries will soften the cooling afternoons.

Around Kyoto and further south, his outdoor skills had served him well through winters in caves, even lean-tos. However, this far north—he can see Hokkaido's coastal mountains rising on the other side of the narrow Tsugaru strait that separates the two islands—he knows he'll need real shelter if he's to see another spring.

_A village. Small and out-of-the way, and preferably in need of a guard, or another strong back, or a good field hand. I'll even do laundry._

And then, just as the sun rises enough to clear the cliffs on his left, there it is.

The coast bends sharply back on itself, and, as he rounds the jutting promontory, a deeply curved bay sparkles before him in the strong morning sun. In the elbow of the curve, sheltering foothills gently slope up to cultivated fields in high meadows, and a cluster of homes and storehouses nestle cozily below.

_Probably about 20 families in all._

Two boats rock gently at their moorings. Five mooring posts are empty, and two more boats lay beached and disabled. It's obvious they've been laid up for some time, and he wonders why.

He can make out figures moving in the fields, and activity here and there at the edge of the buildings. When the breeze moves the right way, it carries voices to him, especially the laughter and shrieks of children at play. The little village is lively, but not frenetic; full, but not crowded; busy, not chaotic.

_Perfect. If they'll have me._

He lingers a moment longer, savoring the last of his solitude, then steps resolutely out of the cliff's shadow into the light, and picks his way along the rocky beach toward the settlement.

_

* * *

Notes:_

_If you liked Kenshin's kata in this chapter, you should NOT miss SiriusFan13's "Like Breathing"!_

_RE the "comrade" who asked about Kenshin's "battle mien": Ushiro Ryu is SiriusFan13's excellent OC, and perhaps Kenshin's best (only?) friend during his hitokiri period. He stubbornly persists in breaching the assassin's emotional walls to offer true friendship to his silent and misunderstood companion. You can meet him in "Out of Time", "Envy", and (the as-yet-unposted) "Amethyst and Amber", as well as in chapter 54 of "Ruroken Haiku Collection", if you want your heart wrung._

_And the phrase, "sigh of steel against wood" was lifted directly from the delightful "Journey's End" by omasuoniwabanshi, the story of Soujiro Seta as he tries out wandering. Don't miss this fic. Domo arigato, Omasu!_

_

* * *

Review responses: **lolo popoki:** I'm glad you enjoyed the flashback. I'd actually like to write something just about this period for him, but I think I'd have to do a little more research before I could make it believable. **Omasuoniwabanshi: **The kata was really fun to write, so I'm glad it pleased you. You liked the "hot bath" thing? Yes, that made me smile for him, as well. He really had been so very isolated in his life with Hiko, and I think it would be charming to "discover" the world along with him after he came down from the mountain to live. Maybe that's something YOU would like to write about. (hint hint) **LadyRhiyana:** I'm please you liked the kata and the dragon image. The kata stuff is mine, but the idea of the Hiten Mitsurugi Dragon came from Akai Kitsune's "Peace In Your Arms". A wonderful piece, but I couldn't seem to make contact to ask permission to use it. So I just did anyway. You liked Hiko's "views", eh? (grin) I'm glad you're enjoying the descriptive stuff—I can sort of get carried away, I know. **A lilmatchgirl:** Thanks for reading and reviewing with such enthusiasm—it means a lot to me. **Moeru Himura: **Yes, I, too, liked the contrast between the bustly camp and his current solitude, and the appropriateness of his musing on that past while he's wandering. He had a LOT of time to think, didn't he? I'm glad this chapter helped your wandering-years-fic-jones! **Shirou Shinjin:** I'm so glad the opening scene worked for you—I wondered whether I were carrying on a bit, but I enjoyed putting myself on that beach, too, so… And I liked imagining a bit of his time a Takasugi's camp. Maybe I'll write a small fic that just sort of explores that time in his life—it sort of fascinates me. (probably have to do some research for that…) RE the training session: Well! I can see from your demonstration that you have handled a sword before, but if you will just observe while I demonstrate what I usually do in this situation … See? Did you notice how I simply laid the sheathed sword gently on the ground and backed carefully away from it? That's my very best technique, and the one on which I based the passage in this chapter. Although, actually, I think I wasn't clear about that "shoulder height" thing. I just meant that's where he started from; when "he flows into his battoujutsu crouch", I meant that his left arm came down to hold the sword in that place at his left hip and his body twisted so that his right arm crossed to the hilt and the rest of him was in that stance that we see him in so much in Watsuki's drawings. Sorry._


	8. Chapter 8 Ningenkankai Part I

**Chapter 8 – Ningenkankei – Part I  
**_Family connection._

Sitting primly in the prow of one of the beached boats, a small red dog is the first to notice him. Turning its gaze from the sea to the approaching figure, it regards him seriously. Kenshin can feel it sizing him up, deciding how to respond to this possible threat to its territory.

Hopping over the gunwale, it lands on the sand already in a trot and efficiently covers the distance between them. As it nears him, Kenshin stops, ceding control to the creature. It trots unhesitatingly right up to him and begins its inspection, sniffing his legs and feet, leaving no fold of cloth unexplored, no patch of skin ignored.

Stepping back, it looks expectantly up into his face. Obediently, Kenshin squats, elbows on his knees, hands hanging relaxed between them. Another round of sniffing, this one including even standing against his back, front paws reaching up to his shoulders: the intruder has quite a tail, after all.

"Koro likes you. I can tell."

Kenshin looks up at the speaker. Poised above him at the edge of the boulders mounded at the foot of the cliff, stands a boy of about thirteen, head up, feet apart, fists on hips. Dressed in mompe, the narrow cotton trousers gathered just below the knee, so common in the country, he is barefoot, despite the harshness of the ground and the obvious conclusion that he had had to clamber down the cliff's face to position himself for this "ambush".

Kenshin stands, and the reception party continue its examination of him, one focused on his scents, the other on his appearance and mien. Wordlessly, they assess each other. Something feels familiar—they are not unalike, these two; the reserved, damaged, recovering assassin and the solemn young man with the too-serious visage, with the almost visible weight of responsibility riding his slim shoulders.

A great crashing and a landslide of rocks, rubble, and thrashing limbs announce the arrival of a third welcomer. This boy, younger by several years, shows none of the restraint of his companion. Before even reaching the bottom of the cliff, he's yelling: "Hey, _nii-san_, who's that? Is he an enemy? Are we going to attack him? Let me take him first!"

The boy has landed, astonishingly enough, not only upright and retaining a firm grip on the stick he'd been clutching, but in fighting posture: feet spread in hanmi, the stick held with both hands low in front of him, its tip angled directly at the base of Kenshin's throat.

_That's a decent stance. I wonder where he learned that?_

"Akinyemi, stand back. Put down that stick!"

Frustrated in his battle-plans, the boy Akinyemi settles for interrogating the intruder upon his territory, body and stick still in fighting posture.

"Are you poor? Your clothes are falling apart. And you're really skinny."

_Such a forward spirit—in both, of them, actually. But how different they seem on the outside._

"I have been traveling a long time, it's true."

Kenshin notices the newcomer's unusual appearance: unruly, curly hair, smoky skin. True black eyes, large and round, with a direct, proud gaze.

_His features… So different. He's not Ainu— I've never seen anyone like him. Another who "looks different"…_

Breaking stance, Akinyemi begins to hop around, first on one foot, then the other, moving ever further along the beach toward the village, shouting questions back over his shoulder.

"Why are you here? Are you going to stay a long time? My dad died in a storm a long time ago. Where are you from? We live with Auntie and Shin'ichi. Is that a sword on your back? Do you kill people with it? Here's our house—Mom, come look at what we found!"

This last is uttered in a voice loud enough to carry throughout the entire village and echo off the surrounding hills. They've reached the edge of the houses—Kenshin had found himself simply pulled along behind the chatterbox and the stoic—and now stand at the entrance to a small cottage. Lining the short path leading to the engawa are rows of yellow aster and pink camellia. An enormous wisteria vine envelops the entire back of the structure and drapes over the low roof, and a sturdy, low fence surrounds the tidy, carefully-tended patch of yard in the front. The homey aroma of rice wafts from somewhere within, and Kenshin hears the soft scuffing of tabi on tatami as someone moves deep within in response to the youngster's summons.

* * *

It's taken nearly two weeks, but both the damaged boats are once again seaworthy, thanks to the guidance and advice of Old Toru. Grown feeble and blind with age and many sorrows, the old man was the heartbeat of the town. More evenings than Kenshin could have imagined, he found the final hours of his days spent at the edge of the little crowd of men and boys that gathered on the old man's engawa. The men smoked and discussed and drank and told tales, and the boys listened and punched each other.

And he's heard, memorized even, the heart-wrenching story—from Akinyemi; from Okito, Akinyemi's mother; from Aunt Maemi; from Cousin Shin'ichi. How the very summer storm he'd weathered further south had grown, had gathered what seemed like the whole of the ocean into itself, had coiled and condensed and waited, waited for just the right target, then had unleashed itself, all its pent-up fury, all its ferocity, onto the little flotilla of boats desperately, futilely racing before the wind to reach the bay in time. In time to beat the waves, in time to help batten down the village.

In time to live.

His mind's eye paints clearly the picture of the ravaged town and the thrashed bay, desultorily calm in the wake of the spent typhoon. Of the watchers on the shore, nervously hopeful at first, gradually resigning themselves to the awful, dawning truth as the days passed. Of the two battered shells floating lazily in on the third day's morning tide, scoured of all contents, not even a single net remaining on board. Shin'ichi himself had joined those who waded out to lay hold of the maimed hulls; had laid first hands onto one, the very one that had been his own father's, recognizable by his own name carved into its gunwale, the memory of that summer day, laughing under the strong yellow sun with his father as they mended nets, nearly crushing what little remained of his new-broken heart.

* * *

"Toru-san, have you seen Kenshin?" As usual, the youngster was out of breath from running, yet could barely keep both feet on the ground waiting for his answer.

"Boy, stand still! You cannot hurry the sun with your feet, you know." Old Toru knocked the ashes out of his pipe and set it aside. He answered, solemnly, "No, Akin-chan, you know I haven't seen him."

"Aw, Toru-san, you know what I mean!" Akinyemi pushed out his lower lip and shoved his unshod big toe deep into the sand. "He promised to train me this morning, and I can't find him."

Waves of impatience fairly rippled off the boy's dark skin, and Toru smiled his private pleasure to himself and lifted his sightless eyes skyward and said, "Shin'ichi and Kenshin took Koro up to the fields to hunt gophers before sunrise. They should be back soon now. Why don't you wait for them here?" He said this last merely for the response he knew would come. He wasn't disappointed.

"Wait here?" The boy snorted the words. In one step, he'd turned and bolted, the fading crunch of pebbles beneath his fleeing feet giving his final answer.

Toru had buried many in his time, and had lost much, but this, life's last gift to him, this boy with the unlikely name and the unfortunate history, this untamable spirit in human form, this Akinyemi—his old heart welcomed the warmth of this love.

_

* * *

Notes: I decided to pick names for their meanings this time, so we'll see how that goes._

"_hanmi" : the martial arts name for the placement of the feet in a certain stable position, ready for giving or receiving a strike._

_Koro : A common Japanese name for a dog._

_Akinyemi : Nigerian (Yoruba tribe) name meaning "fated to be a warrior"._

_Shin'ichi : truth; firstborn_

_Okito : little wisteria tree_

_Maemi : smile of truth_

_

* * *

Review responses: **A lilmatchgirl:** Yes, he'll be here awhile, probably all winter. **LadyRhiyana:** Have you been peeking at my notes! Yes, Akinyemi's history will play a part in upcoming chapters. (Also, be wary of trusting "happy interludes"…) **Wolven Spirits:** Ah, a new reader—how gratifying! I hope you continue to enjoy my story.** Omasuoniwabanshi:** You liked Koro, eh? He's modeled on Emily's little dog, a Shiba Inu named Shinta. I'm glad you liked the storm description (I'm always amazed at the ability of primitive peoples to cast themselves out on that trackless desert and make a living that way!). As for the boys, well, I have plans for them… **moeru himura:** It's a gratifying development for me that my reviewers have expressed particular interest in each of the boys. Each has his particular part to play in the story, and I certainly hoped they would come across as individuals, with distinct characters. And all that. **lolo popoki:** I hope not to disappoint in future chapters! There will be more plot than I am used to creating, so we'll see whether I can carry that off… **Shirou Shinjin:** You noticed about Akinyemi, did you? o.O Thank god I only have to write him, NOT live with him! And the storm, at least in my imagination, sort of scares me, too, even though I didn't dwell on it very much. **Sirius:** Thanks for the "clipped along" comment—you know how much trouble I have with even this much action!_


	9. Chapter 9 Shin'ichi

**Chapter 9 – Shin'ichi**

Kenshin knew how to be alone with himself—he had developed techniques that made his lonely road bearable most of the time; he now knew better how to be with people—again, tolerable, at least for a period. He had never known, however, what he was experiencing now, in this out-of-the-way village: silent, undemanding companionship; companionship with no hint of foreboding and lacking any stain of shared, regrettable history.

At first, he'd broken their silences only cautiously, dreading the dissipation of this serendipitous pleasure, wanting to prolong the sensation, needing the sanctuary.

The very morning after he'd arrived, he'd awakened to find Shin'ichi already up, water for tea nearly ready. Koro posed demurely on the engawa, clearly familiar with the boy's habits and waiting for the moment the activity would turn interesting.

Kenshin sat up and stretched, watching the boy's smooth, practiced movements as he folded his futon and stored it in the corner.

"Good morning, Shin-kun."

The boy replied without turning from changing into his day clothes.

"Good morning, Kenshin-san. I hope you slept well."

"I was most comfortable, thank you."

Rising, Kenshin folded his own bedding and placed it neatly on top of Shin'ichi's, then retrieved his gi from its place on the floor next to where he'd slept. He shrugged into it and after loosening the ties of his hakama, tucked in its bottom and re-tightened the ties.

"Shall I make the tea?"

"No, thanks—I know where everything is."

Kenshin felt at a bit of a loss. What he wanted to do, what he'd planned to do, at this still-dark hour when everyone else should have been still deeply asleep, was sneak out for his kata. Entering the village yesterday, he'd glimpsed hints of a small but serviceable meadow, and he was eager to try it out. Now it seemed rude to simply walk out on his host.

"The day is quite new, isn't it?"

"Yes."

_Hmmm… Is this the kind of thing that Okami used to complain about?_

Kenshin was reluctant to pry outright, but he found himself uncharacteristically curious about what was afoot; judging from Koro's attitude, this hour of rising seemed to be a habit with the boy, and it was early indeed, even for country-folk, who needed to get a jump on the day's short hours, even shorter and more precious as fall slid into winter.

"Is there any way I can assist you, Shin-kun?"

The boy looked up in surprise—he always performed this chore alone, especially given his preferred hour—and thought for a moment. He seemed to need to reconcile his accustomed solitude with the novel idea of including this solemn visitor—how much should he reveal? Would he regret allowing another into his privacy?

"I'm just going into the fields to hunt gophers."

It had been some time since Kenshin had done any farming, had tended a crop and worried over its progress, but this statement conjured pleasant remembrances of other, also peaceful, times; months of warm silence spent under the summer sun, healing, growing, learning to love. He was well into the memories before he realized that, for the first time, they had come without their customary sting, that he was also recalling the joys of that time. He found this disjointing: guilt, and relief, and uncertainty, and, yes, fear—fear of what this meant, fear that he would forget and lose the only part of his heart that he still valued, fear that he wouldn't forget and would remain an emotional cripple forever.

"Would you like company?"

They regarded each other across the dark room, their figures lit only by the orange glow of the fire crackling gently under the steaming tea water, their soft shadows flickering against the walls, not even a glimmer of dawn in the blackness outside the one open window.

_

* * *

Winter was closing in fast and the morning air was no longer merely chill but decidedly cold. The afternoon snow flurries remained each day longer on the ground; increasingly each morning, yesterday's snow still lay, lace-like, on the earth. Soon would come the first real snowfall, and with it, a change in their daily routine: kata would change to emphasize survival, stances would be modified to accommodate unstable footings, bathing habits would change. Slightly._

_But today, today would still belong to autumn, would still hold the bright memory of summer in the blue of its sky, in its mid-day warmth, in the strength of its sun._

_In the dark, he rose quietly, careful not to disturb his master, although as he matured, he began to suspect that Hiko merely pretended, pretended so that Kenshin would always feel the weight of responsibility, pretended so that Kenshin could learn the pleasures of duty, pretended so that Kenshin had a few moments each day with his own thoughts. _

_Pretended so that Kenshin, and not Hiko, would be the one awake and alone in the chill of the pre-dawn cabin. _

_In the dark, he folded the thin futon and changed out of yukata into gi and mompe. In the dark, he stoked the fire back to life. _

_In the now soft, warm glow, he picked up the water bucket and his fishing rod and slipped out the cabin door, out under the spangled net of the night sky. The walk to the river took all of two minutes, but while he was still quite young, it was two minutes that tested his courage. Now—now that he was nearly a man and had trodden this path every morning since he'd been brought to the mountainside, alone every morning since Hiko had decided he could manage on his own—it was two minutes of private contemplation, two minutes to center himself, two minutes to connect his spirit with the world and face it in his own way, free from the demands of training and chores._

_He loved these two minutes._

* * *

"Yes."

Wordlessly, they finished dressing, sat beside each other on the engawa fastening their tabi and sandals, while Koro began pacing behind them, sniffing elbows and backs, down the steps to inspect feet, back up the steps checking the gopher bags, whimpering to encourage haste—he was only a little dog and had only a little patience and felt the wisdom of conserving it.

They were nearing the lowest field before either of them spoke again.

"Does no one else help you with this?"

"My father did this task for the village—it's better with fewer people. When I got older, old enough to understand and learn stillness and stealth, he took me with him. After he…" The boy paused. "After the storm, I continued."

They reached the edge of the terraced paddy and stopped, searching for the little dog among the drained rows of rice, fat seedheads ready for the harvest beginning later that day. In the grey light, they could hear the soft plop of dew dripping heavily onto the damp earth from the tips of leaves. There was no sign of Koro.

Then the smallest rustle among the plants to their right, the tip of a fiercely wagging red tail, followed by a precise yip—Kenshin's head jerked toward it and his body tensed, some not-quite-buried part of him responding in the old way to the unmistakable battle cry—and a quick explosion of activity.

A small, triumphant face, nose dusted with dirt and mouth open and panting, popped up above the plants several rows in, and Shin'ichi began to pick his way toward it, carrying his bag high to avoid bruising the crop. Noting the disarrangement in vegetation to their right, he pointed and said, "Kenshin-san, I think there is another over there. Do you see? Would you please get that one for me?"

Already, Koro was bounding away, deeper into his hunting ground, nimble feet avoiding the daikon and squash planted between the rice, sensitive nose pinpointing the day's next victim.

Koro loved mornings.

_

* * *

Review responses: **LadyRhiyana:** Even when Hiko is "doing the right thing" (i.e., providing opportunities for Kenshin to grow and develop by letting these chores fall completely on him, and even waiting until Kenshin is up to the task), he manages to take care of the old 13th master, doesn't he? And I just figured that farmers the world over are bedeviled by these ravenous little critters, so… **Shirou Shinjin:** Yes, this chapter is slow, and I'm afraid that the following handful might be that way, too, since they will each focus on Kenshin's relationship with a different significant character in this village. Not a lot of action, but a whole potload of introspection… RE Koro and Kenshin: who, indeed? **omasuoniwabanshi:** I figure almost any quiet activity performed in the early hours of the day and primarily alone has got to be beautiful; at least, this one seemed to turn out that way. I know I went kind of heavy on the whole "mood" thing (even for me!)… It turns out I have less control over this story than I should, probably. Yes, Koro charms me, as well. If I could draw, I'd post a pic of him in the prow of that boat as he spies Kenshin on that first day. **Sirius:** I agree with you about the "feel for the OVA", so that meant a LOT to me! This chapter did suffer from having no beta to help me with tense (you are the best at that), so I'm not surprised I slipped._


	10. Chapter 10 Akinyemi

**Chapter 10 – Akinyemi**

Forbearance and dignity were never so closely allied as in the figure of Koro, perched still as a statue atop a flat rock to the side and well out of the lines of action. The two combatants had been hard at it for hours, but the little dog showed no inclination toward boredom. He didn't require that he understand the activities of humans in order to enjoy their company; he found it better not to try.

"I know you are eager to move ahead, but it is most important that your body first learn these foundation moves thoroughly."

Kenshin stepped nimbly aside as he spoke, neatly avoiding Akinyemi's fast, but still wobbly attack. The boy spun quickly and rushed back in. If ferocity of expression counted for anything, Kenshin surely would have fallen. Instead, he dodged to the right, stepping back with his left foot and pivoting around his right, arms straight out at shoulder level swinging his shinai in a level semi-circle. He pulled the swing's power at the last to tap gently on the nape of his deshi's neck.

Despite the lack of force in the strike, Akinyemi, nearly exhausted by now, stumbled forward a few steps before dropping heavily onto one knee and both hands, his weapon skittering away as the fall broke his grip. He scrambled up and stood facing his instructor, face red and blotchy, hair standing in wet curls, breath coming in great gasps, fists clenched at the ends of trembling arms.

"That's … not … fair!" His words were punctuated by gulps of air, and he stamped a foot for emphasis when he finished.

"You will find that 'fair' is hardly ever a factor when facing a real enemy."

"But, shishou…"

Kenshin winced. "Please, Akinyemi, I've asked you not to call me that. I'm very happy to help you improve in your own kata, but I'm not qualified to be anyone's 'shishou'."

_Nor do I want the responsibility._

"I … like … calling … you … that!" Akinyemi hopped in a circle around Kenshin, his words timed to his hops.

_Where does he get all that energy?_

"Can't you just keep using 'oniisan'?" Kenshin moved over to Koro's rock and began to gather their things: the little bag that had carried their morning meal, his hat, the sakabatou; Koro supervised solemnly. "It seems to work fine the rest of the time."

The boy hopped to follow him, and Kenshin had to dodge between restless feet for each object he picked up.

"But I really want to get stronger and I want to be a real apprentice with a real shishou! I'm working hard for you, and I try to do everything you say just the way you tell me to so I can get stronger. I want you to be my shishou, Kenshin-oniisan." During this speech, his dance had gradually slowed, then stopped; his voice and body had softened until, finally, he stood in a posture of pleading, hands clasped in front of him and large liquid eyes searching Kenshin's face.

Inwardly, Kenshin rolled his eyes.

_This is another reason I'd make a terrible "shishou"…_

Outwardly, he sighed and said, "Well, I suppose, just while we are training here in the meadow…"

Yelping in delight, Akinyemi leaped into the air a good eighteen inches and grabbed his new master around the chest in a bear hug, nearly knocking them both off their feet. Staggering, Kenshin instinctively grabbed Akinyemi around the shoulders to keep his balance, dropping everything except the sakabatou. Exhilarated by the sudden action, Koro hopped down off the rock and pranced around the two, tail high and swishing, adding short, sharp barks to the general melee.

"Thank you, shishou! Thank you! I will make you proud of me! You'll see—you won't be sorry—I'll be the best deshi ever!"

Still in the boy's tight embrace, Kenshin looked down into those strangely open, strangely dark eyes. He couldn't suppress a smile at what he saw there, unmistakable in spite of his unfamiliarity with it; it lifted his heart even as its implications gave him pause: the boy worshipped him.

The sight tickled something in his memory, something just below the reach of his consciousness, something floating deep within the murk of his past.

_

* * *

It was hopeless for him to match his tiny steps to those of the giant striding along the path before him, but he could try, and try he did, leaping more than stepping from one enormous footprint to the next, sometimes wavering unsteadily on one foot, scrawny arms out for balance, occasionally tipping over onto an outstretched palm, pushing off to right himself, careful never to touch a foot down on untrodden soil. His round face shone with exertion and his eyes fairly glittered with the delight of the game._

"_Shishou! Shishou! Look at me! Look! I can walk just as big as you!"_

_The giant didn't so much as glance over his shoulder: the brightly shining ki behind him bathed him in its own kind of sunshine, and he didn't need to see it to know it. A heaviness dragged at his heart as he carefully didn't think about what the future held for his little charge. All he had to offer the boy was a life of discipline and self-denial: satisfying in its own way, but a stark contrast to the lightness trailing him through the wood. He could do it better than any other: it was what life had given him. It was all life had given him. Until now._

"_Yes, Kenshin, you grow stronger every day."_

_He was surprised to discover how deeply this little sparrow had sunk its tiny talons into his heart in just the few weeks since he'd rescued him: he no longer had to hold the boy in order to induce sleep; he remembered the first uncertain smile, shy beneath ducked head and shadowing bangs; the first delighted trill of laughter still rang in his ears. His mouth quirked upward at the mental image of the boy skidding breathlessly through the hut's door, summer's first butterfly caged between sweaty palms and presented triumphantly for inspection. He would sacrifice much for this boy, for his survival, for his well-being._

"_And bigger, too! Don't forget 'bigger', shishou! Someday I will be as big as you." _

_The big man's heart warmed in spite of himself; he felt the love of a father, something he'd never expected would come his way. So much training lay ahead, so much hardship; how would the boy bear up under it? What would become of the gentle spirit now following in his steps, now gathering 'monk's cabbage' from the forest floor, now trotting beside him and tugging at his hand, gazing up at him with frank adoration? No matter, it was what was required, and to ensure the boy's life, the man would sacrifice even being loved in return, if it came to that._

'_And I will see to it that he does survive.' _

* * *

"Akinyemi, don't try to make me proud of you. You must always do what you know to be right. And good."

He buried his fingers in the dark dense curls and ruffled them solidly, finally pushing the boy's head down and to the side to break their embrace. Akinyemi spun nimbly and grinned happily back at his beloved mentor.

"We'd better head back—your mother will be expecting us in the fields."

"Yes, shishou! Let me carry everything, shishou! That's my job, isn't it, shishou?" the boy exclaimed as he scampered about, gathering their things into his arms. Already, Kenshin was beginning to regret having relented on this point. "Oh! And I'll bring you tea in the mornings and massage your feet at night and wash your clothes…"

"Akin-kun, please!" Now Kenshin couldn't help laughing out loud as he tossed his hat onto his head and adjusted the cord to secure it against the morning's freshening breeze. "Nothing needs to change. We'll just keep training, and you will continue your studies and will help in the fields and take care of your mother."

_You will learn how to be a human, and will grow to be a man, and you will give life to your life and your love to those who love you. You, my young friend, will become neither pariah nor outcast; your heart will remain whole and your spirit strong and good._

He could contribute to this. This could be good, could be very good indeed. Some small part of him woke to the possibilities, to the hope of his own future.

They turned to start the short trek back to the village. Koro loved this part: there was racing ahead, there was scouting and sniffing for dangerous beasts, leaping after unwary birds flying too low to the ground, there was falling behind and catching up—it made all the waiting worthwhile.

"And I will certainly continue to do my own laundry!"

_

* * *

Review responses: **LadyRhiyana:** As long as you are still around to R&R my stuff, and to post your own excellent stuff, then I'm glad this chapter made your heart clutch! **WolfDaughter:** Thanks for the encouragement—it's easy to forget that he was once just a little kid, and that they are remarkably resilient, given half a chance. **Peacebunnie:** Glad you liked it! **Shirou Shinjin:** I'm so glad that line made you laugh out loud—it did me when I wrote it. It is a bit weird to see Kenshin in this role, isn't it? 3AM? Go to bed, baka! **Omasuoniwabanshi:** Thanks thanks thanks! Yes, I, too, hear the voice actor when I write Hiko, and I think that makes all the difference! **Lolo popoki:** Thanks for the sweet review! I'm glad you liked the flashbacks—I hoped they would fit well. **Shikaku Zetsumei Saigen:** Ya-a-ay! A New Reader! Thanks for reading and, especially for such a nice review! As far as Kaoru's appearance, I really don't know: the scope of this story has already broadened much beyond what I expected it to (thanks mostly to **SiriusFan13**!), and I'm just not sure at what point it will end. **Sirius:** Hmmm… a Hiko-centric fic, eh? I'll have to think about that… "worried about Akin-chan", are you? "major mistakes", you say?_


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